Role Reversals
by PeekabooFang
Summary: *REPOSTED AFTER ACCIDENTALLY DELETING* After 172 years locked away in her coffin, the vampire Josette DuPres walks free again. What happens when she encounters the possible reincarnation of her lost love, Barnabas Collins, tutor to young David Collins? Obvious AU, with lots of gender reversal.
1. Chapter 1

******READ FIRST*****: Due to various stupid moves on my part, I deleted this story. Thanks to fabulous user Wild Concerto who sent me the PDF, I'm able to repost it.**

 **The bad news is I lost all the wonderful reviews my awesome first readers gave it. I AM VERY UPSET ABOUT THIS. Also, I wasn't always able to fix the format, so it might look a little odd here or there.**

 **Anyway, feel free to read if you never did the first time around or re-read it if you like. I'd always love some new reviews to take the place of the ones I lost. (FOR WHICH, I REPEAT, I WILL ALWAYS BE UPSET ABOUT).**

 **So, in summary: Thank you SO MUCH, Wild Concerto, for saving me from my own idiocy.**

* * *

 ***1967***

 _So a new journey begins, eh, old fellow?_ Barnabas Collins asked himself as he stared out the train's window at Maine's  
coast rolling by. He smiled ruefully to himself. _Back to your roots._

Since childhood, the orphaned Collins had immersed himself in reading book upon book detailing the exploits of the  
American branch of his troubled family history. Sequestered in the home of his godfather, Nile Bradford, the boy through  
his solitary reading became naturally moody and taciturn, only brightening when imagining himself the hero of any given  
generation of the Collinsport Collins.

Eventually the patient, understanding Nile Bradford was able to channel his charge's wild imagination and infatuation  
with the past into more studious fields, and after years of intensive schooling, old Bradford was proud that just before his  
death he was able to see his beloved godson on his way to becoming a professor of Colonial American History at  
Oxford.

 _Poor Nile_ , thought Barnabas morosely. _Luckily, old friend, you didn't have to witness how it all turned out._  
"Hey." Barnabas was jolted from his brooding by the porter. "We're in Collinsport, buddy."

He straightened immediately from his meditative posture, grabbing his sparse luggage. "Oh, ah, yes. Thank you."  
Squeezing past the porter, he exited the train.

"Good Lord," he muttered to himself, taking in the thick fog and empty platform. "You can take the man out of the London  
fog, but you can't take the London fog out of the man's eyesight." He pulled up his coat collar, shivering from the damp  
sea air. Outside of the impenetrable mist, everything was pitch-black this autumn night.

In truth, this gloomy, foreboding greeting only increased the excitement Barnabas was only just keeping at bay in his  
breast.

For all the shame and disappointed ambition that had brought him to this crossroads in life, Barnabas felt an eerie  
calling stirring in his veins as he stood in the cold, vacant station. Here, perhaps, more than the quiet home on Oxford  
Street, or the hallowed halls of University, was home.

…An impression that grew slightly less convincing as a half-hour passed and no signs of the promised car appeared to  
whisk him away to Collinwood.

Checking his wristwatch, Barnabas tapped his foot absently for another forty-nine seconds before heading with  
imperious impulsiveness to the payphone near the station house.

"Oh, goodness, Mr. Collins!" the exaggerated, breathless voice of the housekeeper spoke from the other end when  
Barnabas explained his marooned status. "Oh, dear me. Mrs. Stoddard will be furious with Willie! Willie Loomis, that is.  
That's our groundskeeper, you know. Worthless wreck of a boy. Probably out getting drunk at The Blue Whale. That's our  
local tavern, you know. Well, Mr. Collins, If you're willing to wait just another half-hour or so, I'm sure that when Mr. Collins  
comes home—er, Mr. _Roger_ Collins, that is—he can take one of the cars and"—

"Oh, no, no, no! Thank you. I wouldn't hear of it," Barnabas cut in quickly. The night air was getting chillier by the minute  
and as the station house was closed this time of night, Barnabas was far from willing to extend his current occupation of  
pacing the dark platform for another weary half-hour. "I wouldn't want to put anyone out. I realize this is all just a  
misunderstanding. Oh, wait one moment!" He put down the phone and waved as he saw a taxi approach. The car  
reluctantly slowed. Barnabas held up a finger to let the driver know to wait, and then put the phone to his ear again.

"Happily, Madame, it looks like help is at hand. A taxi just arrived. Tell Mrs. Stoddard I'll hopefully be at Collinwood's gate  
shortly."

So enthused was he that he cut off the voice on the other end in hanging up, grabbing his bags and racing toward the  
cab.

The irate driver's face glared at him from behind the rolled-down window of the passenger's seat.

"Look, pal," he said, halting Barnabas from opening the car door. "This ain't New York with empty cabs running around  
24/7. I'm off duty, all right?"

Barnabas's heart sank. "Oh, please. Just a moment. I'd have to wait another half-hour in this miserable cold for a ride to  
come if you don't help me out. I'll make it worth your while, and where I'm heading can't be too far away. I'm going to  
Collinwood. Perhaps you've heard of it? It's an old mansion at"—

" _Collinwood_?" The driver asked incredulously, eyes wide and eyebrows up in his broad round face. "You're goin' to  
 _Collinwood_?"

"Er, yes."

"What the hell you want in a joint like _Collinwood_? Nobody in their right mind goes there."

"To work."

"To _work_?"

Barnabas took a deep, impatient breath, willing himself not to snap at his only hope for salvation to please stop  
repeating incredulously everything he said.

"Yes, work."

"Work at _what_?"

"As tutor to young David Collins."

The man's face brightened eagerly as he turned back to the wheel. "Oh, this I gotta hear. Hop in, pal."

* * *

"Boy," the driver said, shaking his head as he pulled in front of the tall iron gate in front of Collinwood about thirty minutes  
later. "Wait till I tell the guys at Blue Whale about this. Right out of some gothic horror story you comin' here. Anyways,  
there's the madhouse in question, Mister," he jerked his thumb toward the gate.

Barnabas handed him the American currency Elizabeth Stoddard had wired him in case of emergency.

"Thank you very much for your trouble."

"No problem. Hey," he said, turning around to grab Barnabas's arm as he was about to leave the cab. "Good luck. And be  
careful. This place is chock full of nut-jobs and weirdoes. If you want, I can take you to the Collinsport Inn where you can  
spend the night and leave on the morning train back to New York or to Bangor. It ain't too late to turn back, y'know."

Unable and unwilling to express that these warnings only increased his perverse anticipation, Barnabas politely replied,  
"Thank you for your generous offer, but that won't be necessary. I believe I shall be fine."

Shrugging, the driver released him. "Have it your way, bud. Your funeral."

Closing the car door, Barnabas waited until the cab was out of sight before facing the steely black gate guarding the  
home of his American ancestors and current distant cousins.

Stamping down again on the excitement fluttering in his chest, Barnabas pushed at the rusty gates until they eventually  
gave way. He walked slowly down the weed-strewn path before him, observing as much of his surroundings as he could  
through the darkness.

From what he could see, the twisted vines and overgrown grass indicated the garden was in a state of total disrepair.  
 _Whoever this Willie is certainly isn't only neglecting his duties as chauffeur._

Following the light provided by the almost-full moon, Barnabas eventually reached the end of the crooked path, and  
stood in awe of the sight before him.

Collinwood loomed large like a gray Goliath. The moonlight silhouetted the spiraling steeples, gables, grimacing  
gargoyles, and outsized structure of the house in stark relief. Barnabas turned to his right at the sound of crashing  
waves, just able to make out the black waters crashing against the shore, the shore Collinwood imperiously overlooked.

The dreary environs and Collinwood's brutal design made descriptions of Castle Udolpho look meek in comparison,  
made Castle Dracula look tastefully subdued, made Norman Bates's house look positively sane.  
Barnabas Collins was falling more and more madly in love by the minute.

Relishing Collinwood's exterior, Barnabas headed toward the front door, anxious to inspect the interior.

His knocks were answered by a flustered-looking older woman, a dishrag in hand as she wiped away the sweat from her forehead.

"Mr. Collins?" She asked.

"Yes. How do you do?"

"Oh, I'm fine, I'm fine. I'm Mrs. Johnson. I'm the one you spoke to on the telephone."

"Ah, yes."

"Come in, come in! Were you able to get here without much trouble? I was starting to tell you over the phone that taxis  
don't run this late in Collinsport, but you'd already hung up."

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry about that. I was just so anxious to arrive. No, everything went fine, really. Once I mentioned where I  
was heading, I held the driver's undivided attention the whole way."

Mrs. Johnson nodded wryly. "Yes, I'm not surprised. We're always the talk of the town one way or the other. Here, let me  
take your coat for you."

"Thank you," Barnabas said absently, taking in Collinwood's expansive entryway. "It's just like it was described in the  
original plans."

"What's that, Mr. Collins?"

Barnabas blinked, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Johnson. But my parents inherited a great many of the papers and  
books from the Collinsport branch of our family tree, and since childhood I've absolutely devoured them, particularly  
those pertaining to Collinwood's construction. And I must say, every detail exceeds my expectations."

"Yes, it's a beautiful old house," Mrs. Johnson conceded as she hung up his coat and moved his bags closer to the  
staircase. "Of course, these recent years haven't seen the place at its best."

Barnabas had to agree with her there. As Mrs. Johnson headed upstairs to inform Elizabeth Stoddard of his arrival,  
Barnabas noticed the classic architecture and winding staircase were offset by the inclusion of collecting dust and  
cobwebs. While some beautiful original pieces remained such as the tall grandfather clock and antique chairs, much of  
the décor was heavily influenced by the garish bright articles of the day, such as shag rugs and lava lamps.

Yet Barnabas's good opinion was restored when inspecting the walls he found the family portraits staring down at him,  
defiant in the face of changing times, dating all the way back to the 17th Century.

"What a history," he murmured proudly.

"Why, I wouldn't believe it if I didn't see you with my own eyes," a melodious voice spoke from the stairs.  
Barnabas turned to see a beautiful and regal middle-aged woman with a stiff up-do and elegant evening dress descend  
the steps, a gracious, subtly sad smile on her face.

"I don't believe I have to ask who you are, Mrs. Stoddard," he said with friendly deference, warmly shaking her hand as  
she approached.

"Please, Cousin Barnabas, no need for such formality. Call me Elizabeth, please."

"Gladly, Elizabeth."

"And I'd never have to ask who _you_ are, even if I didn't know you were coming."

He tilted his head questioningly. "How's that?"

"Why, your portrait, of course."

"My portrait?"

"I'm just being flippant. The painting of the original Barnabas Collins, your namesake, resides in the Old House, a little  
ways from here. It's been… _some_ years since I've been to the Old House, as it's very dilapidated now. But even though I  
haven't seen the portrait in a while I can still remember enough to know the resemblance between you two is absolutely  
uncanny." Her eyes ran over his face with muted surprise.

Barnabas's smile widened. "Ah yes, the original Barnabas! Always my favorite when I'd read up on the family history, at  
the risk of sounding conceited."

Elizabeth nodded, family pride written in her own face. "Yes, he was the one who really got the cannery business off the  
ground, and the one who started construction of the new house." She continued staring unabashedly into Barnabas's  
face. "The resemblance is so eerily _striking_."

Barnabas's masculine pride couldn't help but be tickled here, to be compared so closely to his namesake, one of the  
more dashing and romantic figures in the Collins history.

"Considering his contributions to the Collins name, I do believe I will take that as a compliment, Elizabeth."  
"As you should. But you must forgive me, my surprise at your appearance kept me from greeting you properly: welcome  
to Collinwood, Barnabas Collins."

"I am honored to be here," he said genuinely.

Approving, Elizabeth continued, "If you follow me now to the dining room, I've asked Mrs. Johnson to prepare some  
supper for you."

"That's very kind," Barnabas said, following her down the long, stately corridor. "But it's really not necessary. I don't want  
to put you or your staff to any trouble."

"Nonsense," Elizabeth dismissed the issue with the wave of her hand. "It is we who put you through so much trouble. I  
do apologize for you being left abandoned at the train station. A nice hello, wasn't it? As for our staff, there's only Mrs.  
Johnson," she inhaled sharply, her face grim and disapproving, "and Willie Loomis."

"Ah, yes, the groundskeeper, so I've heard."

Elizabeth laughed shortly. "If you can call him that. I took him on as..." she hesitated uncomfortably for a moment, looking  
away. "As a favor to an…old friend. Willie's a total waste of a human being, spending most of the time drunk and ending  
up in more fights than doing any actual work. He should be in shortly to take up your luggage, however."  
 _Oh, lovely,_ Barnabas thought bleakly. He was glad there was nothing worth stealing in his possessions after hearing  
this cheerful description of Collinwood's only manservant.

The dining room was perhaps the most dreary place he'd yet come across. It was about two sizes too big, and sitting  
across from Mrs. Stoddard at the long thin table gave one a very hopeless, lonely feeling.  
As he ate, Elizabeth cleared her throat carefully. "Barnabas, I decided before you came here not to ask any pressing  
questions concerning your…dismissal from Oxford."

Barnabas slowly laid down his fork.

Elizabeth continued. "The past is the past. I know how untruthful and hurtful gossip can be"—  
Barnabas held up his hand, gently stopping her. "Please, Elizabeth. I admire your sensitivity, but I would feel more at  
ease if you let me explain everything."

"Now, really, it's not"—

"I must, if we're to have total honesty between us, as is befitting family members." He stared at his hands for a moment,  
resting tensely on either side of his plate. Finally he looked up and spoke. "I'm not sure how much of the scandal you've  
heard, but I might as well start at the beginning. I had recently received my fellowship at Oxford, and enjoyed the close  
friendship and endorsement of Dr. Sky Rumson, a prominent dean and donor to the school. Unfortunately," he paused.  
"Unfortunately, I also enjoyed the dubious privilege of being the subject of his wife's affections."

Noticing Elizabeth shifting in her seat, Barnabas locked eyes with her quickly. "But I assure you with every fiber of my  
being, I never encouraged her or reciprocated her advances. But after I had only been about a year teaching, Sky  
discovered her feelings and in a rage threw her out and destroyed my career. With his clout and reputation, he was  
easily able to secure my dismissal. Having just started my career, and without any friendships yet established in Oxford  
beyond his, I was an easy target for slander. My reputation was tarnished past the point of anyone hiring me. I am,  
essentially, persona non grata in London's academic circle."

He exhaled an uneasy breath at the end of his confession. He stared at his hands again, waiting for Elizabeth to speak.

"I know what it is like to be gossiped about, to be slandered," she said with quiet empathy. "Sometimes the charges  
were true, but most of the time they've been false. If I've learned anything from life, it's that everyone deserves a second  
chance, innocent or guilty. I appreciate your candor, Barnabas."

"And I yours, Elizabeth," he returned softly. "But…might I ask how it is you learned I was in need of a position? Your letter  
was rather vague on that point."

"Oh, that," she said easily. "Roger—my brother, you'll probably meet him tomorrow—was in London on business a few  
months ago and heard odd rumors about the incident. Although I sympathized with you, for I've heard Sky Rumson often  
abuses his power, I decided that it was at least a fortuitous stroke of luck where David was concerned."

This piqued Barnabas's interest. "Ah, yes, David! I've been remiss in not inquiring after my new pupil."

Elizabeth's easy manner was replaced by obvious consternation. She took a few moments before answering. "You  
appreciated my candor earlier, so I'll not let you down now. David is a disturbed young man. We had to pull him out of  
school, because he was disruptive, moody, and frightening the other children."

It was Barnabas's turn to be uneasy. "I must confess, Elizabeth, I don't have much prior experience with children, much  
less troubled ones."

"I know. That's why I chose you. David isn't like other children. Oh, he's fanciful, very fanciful. That's part of the problem.  
But he's also very precocious. He won't take being talked down to. Keep the curriculum simpler than what you'd teach at  
Oxford, of course, but don't treat him any differently than you would your other students. He'll pick up on any  
condescension." She smiled at him apologetically. "I fear this position is a step down for you, Barnabas."

"Not at all, Elizabeth. I'm grateful for the work. And I must admit to having rather selfish motives for coming here as well,"  
he said, eyes twinkling. "Ever since I was a child I've wanted the chance to reside at Collinwood, to stand at Widow's Hill  
and watch the waves crash against the shore."

Elizabeth laughed. "Well, I'm afraid you won't find much romance here, Barnabas. We're all pretty set in our ways." She  
stood. "Hopefully Willie's back by now. He'll escort you to your room."

As they made their way back down the corridor, Barnabas found himself again engrossed by the various paintings that  
followed them, and stopped to study a photograph at the end of the hall: a family portrait of the current Collins family.  
Elizabeth sat in the center, ever regal and lovely. A bored, rigid-looking man some ten years younger stood at her right,  
apparently too consumed with ennui to smile beyond a tired smirk. To Elizabeth's left stood a pretty blonde teenager,  
whose exaggerated bright smile failed to mask her petulant and angry eyes. In front of the man was a boy of about ten  
years old. The lad stared with penetrating glum eyes out of the picture frame, not even making a cursory attempt to look  
more cheerful.

Elizabeth joined Barnabas in studying the unconventional group. "This was taken last Christmas. It's one of the few  
times I've been able to convince everyone to appear in a picture together"—

"—Yeah, we're usually smart enough to realize nobody wants to see another portrait of the Collins family," a pert voice  
interrupted.

At the end of the hall, leaning lazily against a wall with her feet and arms crossed, smiled the blonde teenager from the  
picture.

"Barnabas," Elizabeth said stiffly. "This is my daughter, Carolyn."

He bowed his head. "Very glad to meet you, Carolyn."

"Likewise." She skipped over to him, holding her hand up, eyelids batting as she indicated he should kiss it.  
Unable to stifle his grin at her impertinence despite her mother rolling her eyes, Barnabas complied. "The picture  
doesn't do you justice. You're even prettier in person."

She giggled. "Oh, wow! Love the accent." Happily, Barnabas noticed that this time her eyes seemed to match her big  
grin. "What's London like, anyhow?"

"Carolyn," her mother softly but firmly interjected. "Mr. Collins has had a very long voyage. In the space of a few days, he  
took the boat from Southampton to New York, then the train from New York to here. Why don't we let him get a good  
night's rest before bombarding him with nosy questions?"

Carolyn did a fair imitation of her mother by rolling her own eyes. "Ugh! Fine. Just trying to make conversation. Anyways,  
I'm only here because I heard Willie pull up in his car and thought you might like to know." She swallowed a mischievous  
giggle. "He's stinko again."

Elizabeth closed her eyes. "It figures."

"Well," Carolyn said, winking at Barnabas, "Good luck, teach!" She bounced off down the hall.

"Charming girl," Barnabas said.

"Yes, she is when she wants to be," Elizabeth said sardonically, leading him toward the entryway. "I love that girl more  
than life itself, but there's no denying she can be a bit of a trial. Unlike you, she's never treasured Collinwood for its  
history, but instead feels stifled by it. It's not the most exciting place for a young girl in this day and age."

She halted in her tracks and stared crossly at the figure in the entryway.

The young man slammed the door behind him, swaying on his feet.

"Willie," she said sharply.

The boy's bleary eyes met hers. "Yeah?" He asked snappishly. His beat-up leather jacket was torn at the sleeve, and his  
sandy hair was disheveled. He had a small bruise under his eye. He reeked of beer.

Elizabeth gave him the once-over. "You've been in another fight."

He grinned cockily as he stuck a cigarette in his mouth.

"No smoking in the house," she said with a forceful note in her even voice.

Raising his eyebrows, he took it out, hands in the air in a mock display of peace. He leaned against the doors, steadying  
himself.

"This is Mr. Barnabas Collins, Willie."

"Hello, Willie," Barnabas said with stiff propriety, masking his disapproval of the wild-looking youth.

"Hiya," Willie mumbled disinterestedly.

"You were _supposed_ to pick up Mr. Collins at the train station, Willie," Elizabeth said icily.

"Got held up," Willie answered unrepentantly. He moseyed casually over to Barnabas's suitcases. "This all you got?"

"Yes," Barnabas said uneasily, noticing how the man still didn't seem to possess a healthy sense of balance. "Are…are  
you sure you can handle them, young man?"

"What, cuz I'm wasted?" He laughed unpleasantly. "Brother, I've handled a lot worse with a lot more liquor in me."

"Willie, please," Elizabeth said, quietly mortified that her sophisticated cousin should see her groundskeeper this way.

"What, he's a man of the world! Am I right, _Mr. Collins_?" He said, exaggerating the title.

"Please, call me Barnabas," Barnabas replied hesitantly.

"As you wish, _Barnabas_." He jerked his head upstairs. "Come on. I'll take you to your room. Get you away from the rest of this dump." He stomped loudly and unevenly up the stairs, dragging the cases behind him.

Barnabas turned to bid his cousin goodnight, who was frowning in embarrassment. "Well, I hate for your first night here  
to end in such a mean way, Barnabas," she said by way of apology. "But I do sincerely welcome you. I'll introduce you to  
David and his father tomorrow morning."

Barnabas took her hand again. "Excellent. And I thank you, Elizabeth. I thank you…for the second chance."

* * *

Willie was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, the cases nearly coming out of his grasp.

"Uh, here," Barnabas said awkwardly. "Hate to load you with all these. Why don't you let me take one?"

"Suit yourself," Willie said, tossing him the heaviest. He grinned as Barnabas caught it with an "oof!"  
"This way."

Barnabas soon forgot his unease when he noticed again all the portraits gracing the wall. Unlike Elizabeth, Willie had  
next to no knowledge of the Collins family tree, and in response to Barnabas's questions about various ancestors  
portrayed in the paintings, he'd answer with grunts that he didn't know and didn't care.

Bemused, Barnabas asked, "Don't you know anything about the Collins ancestry?"

Here Willie stopped for a moment, and eyed him slyly. "Sure. I know about one. And she's in your room."  
Barnabas was perplexed.

"C'mon, I'll show you," Willie whispered in a nasty voice that almost overwhelmed Barnabas with its heavy stench of  
alcohol.

He kicked open the last door on the left.

"Ta-dah!" He sang out sarcastically, turning on the light.

Barnabas entered the neat room and then stopped, transfixed.

He didn't see the tidy space. Didn't see the warm, welcoming bed, tired as he was.

What he saw was she.

She looked at him from where she sat gracefully above the vanity, her doe eyes tender and bright, vivacious. Her silken  
hair flowed in loose ringlets down her shoulders, a lilac sash tied just below her bosom on her white dress. A large ruby  
ring graced one of the fingers that demurely clutched a bouquet of jasmine to her chest.

But what caught him most was the singular expression on her face, so much more alive and loving than any of the other  
stiff and formal faces on the paintings outside. She was ethereal in a most uncanny way, and her large eyes drew  
Barnabas in until he felt himself almost hypnotized.

It was the most stimulating and disturbing sensation Barnabas had ever felt.

He licked his lips, which had suddenly become dry. "Who…?" He managed to ask at last.

"Josette DuPres," came Willie's cunning voice at his shoulder.

"Josette DuPres!" Barnabas recognized the name instantly. "Fiancée to Barnabas Collins!"

"Huh?" Willie asked, confused. " _Your_ fiancée?"

"No, no, not _my_ fiancée," Barnabas answered hastily. "My namesake's. She returned to Martinique soon after his death.  
No one knows for sure what became of her after that. There's speculation she entered a convent and never saw man  
again."

"Oh, yeah? How'd lover boy die?"

"He fell off Widow's Hill."

Willie laughed. "Ha, really! How do you just fall off that thing?"

Barnabas shook his head, never taking his eyes off Josette's image. "No one knows if it was on accident or on purpose."

His stare intensified. "It _couldn't_ have been on purpose. What man would kill himself when engaged to such a vision?"

He asked mostly to himself. He frowned as he thought of something else. "Odd."

"What's odd?"

"That Josette's portrait should be here and Barnabas's in the Old House. The Old House is technically the property of the

DuPres family. After Collinwood was built, Barnabas gave the deed to the Old House over to Josette's father, Andre  
DuPres. It was supposed to be handed down from one generation of DuPres to the next. Sadly," he continued in a lower  
voice, "Josette's little brother Stefan died, and with no other sons, along with Andre's return to Martinique with his  
daughter, the place has remained neglected ever since. I don't know if there are even any remaining DuPres out there.  
Still, you'd think the one portrait of a DuPres available would grace their abandoned home."

"I can answer that, bud," Willie answered. "This here was to be the honeymoon suite for Barnabas and Josette, so I've  
heard. Old Barnabas must've put the portrait here or whatever beforehand. I didn't know that junk about the guy dyin', but  
every other head of the household has left this place as it is. Anyways, who gives a rat's ass? That ain't the reason I  
showed ya this."

Amused, Barnabas asked, "Oh, and why are you so interested, Willie? Taken by the girl's beauty?"  
Willie made a face. "Hell, no. Too old-fashioned for my tastes. All that princessy crap. Plus, I ain't no perv. I like my chicks  
alive. No, it's _that_ I'm interested in."

He pointed at the ruby ring.

He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "What do ya think?"

Barnabas shrugged, at a loss.

Willie reached into his pocket and took out an aged piece of paper. Various marks and lines similar to those found on a  
treasure map were sprawled all over the yellow material. "You know what this is?" Willie asked with husky greed in his  
voice. "This here's a map to the Collins family tomb. To the secret room behind the wall."  
Barnabas rolled his eyes, smiling wryly. "Ah, yes. The secret room. Who hasn't heard about the secret room who's read  
anything about the family history?"

Willie glowered. "What, you don't believe in it?"

"Let me guess, Willie: you've heard all about the secret coffin within that secret room, filled with the family's jewels. Am I  
correct?"

Willie looked at him cagily. "You think it's bull?"

"It must be bull."

"Yeah, well, you're wrong," Willie spat out. He hit the piece of paper in his hand. "This here's _proof_ the stuff exists!"  
Barnabas glanced at it skeptically. "Where did you even find this, Willie?"

Willie clucked his tongue malevolently. He tapped on Josette's frame. "Behind this old girl."

Barnabas stared at him shocked. "Behind here? What on earth made you look behind here?"

"You talk around town to some of the old codgers and you hear things after awhile. You hear all about this ring, and how  
it and many other jewels are hidden somewhere's in that old tomb. It's just a matter of finding the map. And guess what,"  
he leered, leaning in. " _I_ found it. I looked at that damn ring, put two and two together, lifted the frame, and tucked away  
behind it was this little darlin'." He kissed the dusty piece of paper. "A map. Found it just yesterday as I was preparing  
this room for _your_ arrival." He punched Barnabas lightly in the shoulder. "Thanks, man," he sneered.

Barnabas remained skeptical. "Willie, there are about a hundred different things that 'map' could signify."

"Oh, yeah?" Willie challenged. "Like what?"

"I don't know, but"—

"But nothin'! It's gotta be the map."

"All right, all right," Barnabas held up his hands, echoing Willie's gesture of compliance from before. "So be it, then. And  
what precisely do you plan to do with this map now that you've got it?"

Willie rubbed the back of his neck, expression growing more and more scheming. "Why, uh, I already took it to, uh, Mr.  
Collins. Mr. Roger Collins, that is. He, uh, he gave me the go-ahead to, y'know, check it out. Say," he said silkily, trying  
and failing to appear affable. "You know I'll probably need some help with all this. I'm sure I could get Mr. Collins to give  
you a cut if, ah, you help me out some. You know, with opening up the coffin and that sort of thing. What do you say, huh?  
You game? It should probably be tonight, y'know, because-"

Barnabas's voice was oblique and censuring. "I don't believe you, Willie."

"Huh? What?"

"I don't believe you've told Roger Collins anything."

"C'mon, what do you take me for?"

"I don't know that I take you for anything. But don't you understand how ugly and debasing a crime grave-robbing is?"

"Hey!" Willie snapped. "Don't you judge me, Mr. Fancy Ex-Oxford Man! I got a right to what's comin' to me!"

"Oh, and why is that?"

"I been bustin' my ass off at this dump for three years now! And believe you me, there ain't no action in this damn little  
ghost town to make up for it. I'm a young man. I got things I wanna do."

"All right then, Willie," Barnabas said with a hint of challenge in his own voice. "I'll help you."

"Yeah? You will?" He asked eagerly.

"Yes, once I've spoken to Mr. Collins about it."

 _"Nuts to you!"_ Willie said, accompanying this biting witticism with a choice gesture. "Don't come whinin' to me when I'm  
richer than in your wildest dreams, you damn hypocritical failed professor! Yeah, word gets around! I know all about you,  
you lousy loser jerk! Sleep tight, asshole!" Stuffing the map back in his pocket, Willie slunk out of the room, slamming the  
door vengefully behind him.

Barnabas whistled in disbelief. It was his earnest belief—and hope—that the man was too drunk to try anything with that  
map tonight. Barnabas prayed Willie would sober up in the morning and realize what a wasted dream he was nurturing.

Meanwhile, Barnabas turned back to Josette's painting.

Once again, he was transfixed by her image.

The way the head was posed on the slender neck, the delicacy of her hands as they held the jasmine flowers, the soft  
lips partly opened.

And the eyes. The haunting eyes.

He'd seen those eyes before. Somewhere primal in his heart confirmed this. He'd seen that face, those hands, that hair,  
those lips. Those eyes. But where, and why? Who was he to feel such things for a woman long dead?

As he stared an eerily high-pitched voice answered him: " _You're a ghost_."

Barnabas's heart stilled in his chest. He whipped around.

" _You're a ghost_ ," the voice repeated.

Barnabas had it now. It came from behind the curtains.

His heart in his throat, Barnabas raced to the window and tore the curtains open.

Familiar glum eyes stared up at him out of a young face.

Barnabas relaxed. He smiled graciously. "Master David Collins, I presume?"

The boy leaped forward, face vicious. "You're not who you say you are. You're a ghost."

Barnabas had never seen such sickly fire in anyone before, much less a child so young. The boy was pale with dark  
circles under his eyes, reedy but with surprising strength in his wiry little limbs. Despite the intimidating figure the child  
cut, Barnabas kept his composure. "Indeed. And let me guess, I am the ghost of Barnabas Collins, died in 1795?"

David nodded, his eyes searing contemptuously into Barnabas's countenance.

"Have you ever seen my ghost before?"

David shook his head, still glaring.

Barnabas indicated Josette. "What about her?"

Another curt shake.

"Come, now. Tell the truth, my boy. Have you ever actually seen a ghost, or is your imagination running away with you?"

"I've seen a ghost, _stupid_ ," David shot back, acid dripping from his tone. "I see one all the time. Stefan."

Barnabas's eyes widened. "Stefan DuPres?"

"That's right. And he warned me you'd be coming, along with her ghost!" He pointed angrily at Josette.

"Ah, well. Nice family reunion, then. No, honestly, David. I'm no ghost. I'm but a man, made of the same stuff as you. I'm  
your cousin from England, Barnabas Collins." He smiled ingratiatingly, holding out his hand to the boy.

David only looked at the outstretched hand as if it were a decaying rat. "You're here to teach me, aren't you?"

"That is the general idea, yes."

 _"Then I_ hate _you."_ His eyes were more venomous than even before. He sped out of the room, the second person in the  
space of a few minutes to slam the door on Barnabas tonight.

He sat down heavily on the bed.

He hadn't been in Collinwood for more than a few hours and already he'd made two enemies despite himself.

He stared wearily at Josette's portrait. "What have you gotten yourself into, old boy?" He asked himself aloud.

* * *

Willie trudged across the lawn, swearing, smoking, and kicking at various objects in his path. Stick-up-their-asses jerks.

The whole lot of 'em, including that penniless leach upstairs, thinks they're too damn good for Willie. He'd show 'em.

He'd show those rich bastards.

He was halfway to his car when a familiar voice barked at him. "Willie!"

He groaned as he turned around to face an irate Roger Collins heading his way, back from the cannery.

"What do ya want, Collins?"

"I've just spoken with my sister," the man said with his usual in-born sneer plastered on his face. "She said once again  
you got drunk and started a fight at Blue Whale. Is this true?"

"I dunno what she's talkin' about," he slurred.  
"Don't play innocent with me, Loomis!" Roger yelled. "I can smell a rat from a mile away, especially one who's been  
drinking cheap beer all night! And worst, you forgot to pick up my cousin! Jesus, what must he think of us?"

"That's all that matters to you assholes, isn't it?" Willie retorted. "What people think of you. Well, news flash, Roger,  
everybody in town thinks your lousy family stinks. Put that in your damn pipe." He ambled off to his car.

"Don't you walk away from me, Willie Loomis! I might not have the authority to fire you over my sister, but I won't hesitate  
to get the law on you so quick it"—

He leapt back for dear life as Willie backed up his car violently and then tore out of the driveway, leaving Roger Collins  
sputtering in his wake.

* * *

All was silent in Collinwood. In his bedroom, Barnabas had just turned off the light and lied down in bed, closing his eyes and willing himself to sleep. However, an irresistible impulse made him turn the lamp back on.

He slowly left his bed and stood once more in front of the likeness of Josette DuPres.

He stood for five minutes, eyes never once leaving her face, a face vivid even in the dim light.

Eventually he tore himself away. With heavy steps he returned to bed. He turned off the lamp and rolled over.

As sleep gradually overtook him, he could almost hear a sweet voice in his subconscious, smelling of jasmine bloom, say, _"Soon, my love. Soon."_

* * *

All was darkness in the cold, barred-off room, as it had been for centuries. Shocking as a bullet came the sudden sound  
of a gate screeching open, and footsteps lurching across the pavement on the other side of the wall. Heavy breathing,  
followed by tapping, tapping, tapping against the wall.

All at once, the intruder found what it was he was looking for, and the heavy wall slowly opened.

Willie didn't have much time.

He grabbed his flashlight, a smile of utter lunacy on his drunken face. He stumbled forward, and an ecstatic gleam  
infused him as the flashlight illuminated what he was searching for.

A single coffin in chains.

He laughed in gleeful shudders for a few moments. Then placing the flashlight on the coffin's lid, he grabbed his toolbox.

Minutes passed, then an hour.

Finally, rusty chains gave way.  
Willie was exultant. Pushing aside his tools, his flashlight tucked into his elbow, he triumphantly raised the coffin lid.

The flashlight shone on the treasure within.

Willie's face shifted from ecstasy to unspeakable, unbearable terror in the blink of an eye.

So paralyzed was he that he couldn't find strength to call out.

A small, white, graceful hand reached out, clutching him by the throat. The hand wore a large ruby ring on one of its  
fingers.


	2. Chapter 2

Weeks passed without any word of Willie. After the first weekend came and went without any sight of the wayward  
groundskeeper, Barnabas awkwardly approached Roger Collins with what he knew about Willie and the supposed map  
in his possession.

Roger initially scoffed at the idea, attributing Willie's absence to yet another bender the boy'd frequently indulge in.

Yet as the first weekend faded into another and then another, and still no word, Barnabas noticed Roger looking  
uncomfortable and speculative whenever anyone mentioned Willie. The male head of Collinwood would absentmindedly  
grind his teeth, tapping his fingers anxiously, and Barnabas could tell he was thinking about what Barnabas had told  
him, and that his suspicions were growing.

But what Collinsport lacked in news from Willie's whereabouts, it gained in strange, inexplicable reports elsewhere.  
The first incident occurred about two days after Willie's disappearance. Three calves that had gone missing from their  
cattle were later found just outside the farmer's property, dead and strangely withered, almost skeletal.

The autopsy ruled the cause of death a dramatic loss of blood—practically 75% had been somehow drained away from  
each fragile calf. Yet the only marks of violence discovered were two small puncture wounds on the throats.

This discovery caused a mild murmur compared to what came later.  
Soon the strange attacker—a new breed of "wild animal," the flustered police called it—graduated to larger stock: grown  
cows, horses, and eventually a young woman and a teenage boy.  
Shivering in their hospital rooms, clutching at their throats, the victims remembered and repeated only two words:

"Those eyes! Those _eyes!"_

* * *

"…So, you see, David, there is no substantial proof the dubious lady ever actually said, 'Let them'—David? Anyone home  
in that wild unfettered mind?" Barnabas asked, looking at his student over the former professor's weathered book on  
18th Century France.

The two lounged on the grass in front of the small strip of beach near the bottom of Widow's Hill, enjoying the pleasantly  
surprising balmy weather.

For all that the younger Collins had initially been enjoying the exploits of the growing revolt before the French Revolution,  
his stony eyes were now locked on the stick he repeatedly stabbed and dug into the dirt before his supine form.

He jolted when Barnabas snapped shut the book. The tutor put aside Marie Antoinette's waning popularity and leaned  
back, hands folded beneath his head. As he stared contently into the clouds above him, he asked in a careless voice,

"Anything you'd like to talk about, old man?"

He had reached a happy if not tenuous détente with the sullen youth in the older Collins's month of employment at  
Collinwood. It had been sorely difficult to attain, and required the assistance of David's aunt.

"Just remember what I told you, Barnabas," she soothed him after Barnabas came to her desperate, having found yet  
another tarantula hidden in his sock drawer, and after having been told for what seemed the hundredth time by David  
that the boy hated him. "Don't treat him any differently than you would your college students. Be stern, but be off-hand  
about it. Speak to him as an adult, don't sugar-coat anything."

The next morning, Barnabas arrived in the schoolroom fifteen minutes late, finding the boy sitting still as a corpse,  
staring with boiling rage at his pale hands.

Barnabas didn't spare him a glance, but pulled down the map from the top of the chalkboard. His voice was casual and  
disinterested.

"'Morning, David. We will be studying the history of Chile for our geography lesson today. Chile, by the way, is a popular  
breeding ground for tarantulas. If I find any more of those unpleasant little bastards in my room, I will hunt them down,  
put them in a box—sans air-holes, mind you—and send them back to that sunny place from whence they came, with  
instructions to drown any chance survivors. Now, the Aymara are an indigenous people of Chile, their language spoken  
by some two million people in"—

As he continued his lesson, he snuck a glance at the boy. While David still stared doggedly at his hands, Barnabas felt  
quietly triumphant as he noticed a small grin on his face.

That grin had reluctant respect in it.  
Barnabas quickly learned that the only way to reach the troubled boy was to be, as Elizabeth called it, "off-hand" in one's  
manner. And so on this sunny day, as he breathed in the salty fresh air as thick clouds rolled by, he affected cool  
disinterest as he inquired after the boy's fragile emotional state.

"I'm worried about Willie," David conceded at last, never looking up from the stick still being plunged deeper and deeper  
into the earth.

Barnabas wrinkled his brow. "Willie? I didn't think you cared a thing about Willie."

"I don't. But I don't want him to suffer, either."

Barnabas rolled over on his side, cupping his head in his hand as he studied the boy. Still keeping his voice even, he  
asked, "Why do you think Willie might be suffering, David? Your aunt and everyone else assume he just skipped town."

"Not everyone. My father doesn't."

"What do you mean?"

"He knows Willie went looking for the secret room." He locked knowing eyes with Barnabas.  
Barnabas dropped his hand, sitting up. "Who told you about that, David?"

"Stefan."

The corner of Barnabas's mouth turned down as he rolled his eyes, lying back into his cupped hands. "Stefan, Stefan. Of  
course it was Stefan. There's no chance you remembered my conversation with Willie when you hid behind my curtains  
the night I arrived here. And there's certainly no chance you eavesdropped when I told your father that's what Willie was planning."

"I didn't eavesdrop!" David insisted, face red. "Stefan told me all about it! And he told me Willie's in a lot of pain! He needs  
help! He needs"—

" _David_ ," came a sharp voice from up the hill. Roger descended with Carolyn on his arm. In her mint-green summer  
dress, Carolyn was attired more leisurely than her uncle on this sunny Friday afternoon, as Roger had just arrived from a  
business meeting in town. "David, settle down. Don't bother your cousin with your nonsense talk about ghost children  
and secret rooms. There isn't a secret room and our dear Mr. Loomis was certainly never there."

"But, Dad"—

"Quiet," he said more sharply than Barnabas liked. Roger turned a more gracious countenance to his cousin. "May I have  
a word, Barnabas? It'll only be a moment."

"Of course."

Roger turned to Carolyn, patting her on the cheek. "Entertain the boy, won't you, kitten?"

Carolyn laughed. "I'll try."

Barnabas and Roger walked a ways up the grassy path toward Widow's Hill. "After our little chat, Barnabas, I took the  
liberty of investigating the Collins tomb myself. I hate to admit it, but after weeks without word from the lout, I thought…  
well, I thought the timing was a bit too coincidental. But no fear," he said decidedly. "I found no evidence of tampering,  
and no evidence of a secret door to any secret room. Just thought you might like to know."

Barnabas let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "My, I'm embarrassed to admit how relieved I am! It  
sounds preposterous, I know, but…."

"But the strange confluence of events—his finding the map, then disappearing—was far too odd to mean nothing? Don't  
worry, I felt the same way." He laughed to himself. "I can't believe I was almost fooled by that idiot. Well," he shrugged.

"Looks like he's just AWOL. And I say Good Riddance. Man's been nothing but trouble since coming here. Let's hope  
he's left town for good this time."

"Indeed," Barnabas agreed. "But might I ask…forgive me if this is impertinent…might I ask why he was hired to begin  
with?"

"One of the mysteries of life, I am afraid," Roger sighed. "Or shall I say one of the many illustrious mysteries of my  
flabbergasting sister. Young Loomis was the lackey of a real snake named Jason McGuire, a smirking cheat who's  
rolled into town periodically since my brother-in-law's death about sixteen years ago. He saunters in, takes a check from  
a reluctant Liz, and scurries off to God knows where. I don't know why he comes or why we're beholden to financially  
support him, but Liz won't discuss it and gently lets me know it's none of my damn business.

"The last time we saw him was three years ago when he deposited Willie at our doorstep. Said the boy needed a job,  
and as we had a shortage of servants, wouldn't it be grandly Christian of us if we were to take him in?" Roger smiled  
unpleasantly. "Drunken brawls, harassing women, neglecting his duties—the kid's an absolute mess. The family's  
barely had a quiet moment since his arrival. Unless, of course, this absence is permanent. Let us hope and pray. Now,  
I'll return you to your pupil."

The sounds of David and Carolyn in the middle of a heated argument greeted the two men as they approached.

"Oh, David"—

"It's true! It's true! Stefan exists!"

"David, you're scaring all of us! We're concerned about you! It's okay to have an imaginary friend, but"—

"He's _not_ imaginary!" The boy emphasized his words by pounding his fist into the ground.

"What's going on, you two?" Roger asked wearily.

Carolyn looked up, abashed. "Oh, Uncle Roger, I didn't mean to upset him. But he was prattling on and on again about  
Stefan telling him Willie's in danger, and it's all just so silly that I"—

"It's _not_ silly," David practically growled. In a lower voice he asked, "He was right about my mother, wasn't he?"

" _David_!" Carolyn cried aghast. She turned large apologetic eyes to her uncle.

He had gone white in the face and taken a step back.

"Roger….?" Barnabas asked quietly, reaching a hand out to steady him.  
Roger blinked a few times and cleared his throat. "Oh, er…it's nothing, Barnabas, nothing really. I…I'm going back in  
now." Drawing his face into tightly inscrutable lines, Roger marched purposefully but too quickly up the hill and  
disappeared around the rocky corner.

Carolyn watched him retreat. Then she turned incensed to her young cousin. "You're a very selfish little boy," she said in  
a quavering voice. She ran off into the opposite direction of her uncle, heading into the forest to take the longer path back  
to Collinwood.

Barnabas stood silent for a moment, following with his eyes the separate paths the two had taken. His eyes settled on  
his young charge. David had his back to him. His arms were wrapped tightly around his legs, his head upon his knees  
as he stared into the horizon.

Barnabas eased himself down beside him.

A few moments passed. "I lost my mother, too, a long time ago," Barnabas said in a muted voice.

A pause followed this statement for so long that Barnabas thought he wasn't going to receive a reply. "Oh, yeah? How?"

David asked at last, murmuring into his knees.

"Their boat sank near the Port of London. I lost her and my father."

"How old were you?" David asked.

"About four years old."

"Do you remember them at all?"

"A little. Bits and pieces." Like David, he lost himself staring into the glowing horizon. "I remember how kind her face was.  
How hearty his laugh."

A slight breeze brushed against them.

Then David spoke. "My mother was a monster."

Shocked out of his role as the distant, unconcerned professor, Barnabas said aghast, "David! That's a terrible thing to  
say!"

"It's the truth," he said, never once taking his eyes away from that distant point beyond the sea.

"Why on earth do you say that, David?"

"You didn't see her. You didn't know. No one knew, except Stefan."

Barnabas shook his head in disbelief. "What _happened_ , David?"

David sighed, and as he spoke he sounded more like a disillusioned man near Barnabas's age than a small boy. "I  
noticed my mom start acting goofy and all weird and protective when I was about seven. She'd fight with my dad and go  
away for a while, only to come back. She'd stand over my bed at night, chanting in some language I didn't understand. It  
started really freaking me out.

"One day sometime before my ninth birthday I was playing in the Old House, trying to get away from her. I found an old  
ball in the basement, and started hearing this music."

"Music? What sort of music?"

"Like a flute, playing 'Frere Jacques'. You know it?"

"Yes, I'm familiar with that song."  
"I followed the music into one of the rooms in the basement and found a boy about a year older than me staring back at  
me, the flute in his hand. He asked for the ball back. Only he was dressed real funny, with these pants that ended at his  
knees and a vest over a white sort of buttoned-down shirt. He had kind of long, light brown hair that was pulled back in a  
ponytail."

"And this was…."

"Yeah, this was Stefan. I asked him who he was and he told me he came here to play with me, to be my friend, and to  
warn me."

"About your mother?"

"About my mother. He said…he said…." David shivered, his chin sinking lower into his knees. "He said she wasn't  
human. That she was an im…immortal who needed me to go into some sort of ritual fire with her, and that she'd…she'd  
um…ab… _absorb_ my spirit into her own, so that we'd be one. I guess she'd been doing that sort of thing for a long, long  
time with a bunch of other kids of hers over the years."

Barnabas had nothing to say.

"I thought he was crazy at first, too. But he kept showing up at weird times, like he could move through walls or  
something. He left me a book with a page in English of the stuff she's been saying over my bed. The chants were  
supposed to get me ready to go in the fire with her. I believed him then." He stopped for a moment, breathing heavily.  
Barnabas was unsure whether he should press him to continue when David spoke again. "So I accused her. In front of  
my dad, in front of Aunt Elizabeth, in front of Carolyn. They told me I was wrong, but her face told me I was telling the truth.  
She looked…she looked like she _hated_ me. One night…." He swallowed. "One night she burst into my room and  
dragged me to the Old House. She tied me up in a chair and started chanting. Suddenly there was this ring of fire around  
her. I cried and cried, and finally, Stefan showed up beside me. He whispered some of that weird language in my ear,  
and just as the fire was about to touch me, I repeated what he said. All at once I wasn't tied up anymore, and I ran to the  
door and looked back at her. Her face went all green, and then she screamed. The fire suddenly spread inside her ring and she…I ran out the door…I didn't want to see…and she disappeared in the fire."

A seagull cawed in the distance.

"I snuck back into my room and hid under my sheets. The fire department came and was able to save the house.  
Everybody…everybody thinks I drove her mad by accusing her of trying to hurt me, and that she set herself on fire  
because I'd made her crazy. They don't say it to me, but I've heard. I've heard Mrs. Johnson talking to neighbors on the  
telephone. But I know the truth about her. And Stefan knows." He sighed. "Stefan saved my life. He's the only real friend I  
have."

The rocking waves crashing gently against the shore was the only sound for several minutes after, the sky changing to a  
deep shade of orange as the afternoon changed to evening.

Barnabas felt shamed and inadequate. This boy needed far more than a befuddled exile such as he to be his confidant,  
a man well into his thirties with an utter lack of experience with children. When Elizabeth told him that David was  
troubled, Barnabas hadn't the slightest idea just how deeply the boy's problems ran.

Obviously the gruesome nature of his mother's death traumatized the boy so deeply as to make him retreat from his  
heartbreak into hatred and fear of the departed woman, concocting a wild, morbid tale. The Stefan figure must represent  
the warm and nurturing emotions a mother was supposed to inspire in her child.

At least, so far as Barnabas could glean. But he was no child psychologist.

Which, frankly, was what the child needed just as much as proper schooling.

Barnabas's gaze wandered to the top of Widow's hill, to its intimidating jagged edge of rock at the tip, where his  
namesake met his death. Then Barnabas looked back at the still, brooding David.

And his sense of shame intensified.

He had been building a dreamworld for years surrounding Collinwood, a dreamworld of gothic proportions, of howling  
wind signifying portentous horrors, of discovering dark and deeply twisted secrets behind the stoic faces resting in their  
portraits.

And here, the darkest and most twisted story dwelled in the tortured mind of a little boy, in need of professional help.  
Barnabas vowed to no longer romanticize the distant tragedies of his family history, when a real tragedy was so close at  
hand, and very far from being romantic.

Glancing at the reddening sky, he stood again. "Come, David," he said sadly. "It's getting late. Let's go inside."  
He had no idea how the woman just making herself known in the drawing room of Collinwood would shake his  
newfound resolve.

* * *

Carolyn tiptoed carefully through the brush in the forest's winding path, wishing she'd worn any other shoes than her new  
white pumps.

She was furious with David, furious and worried. Everyone knew that perhaps the only person Roger Collins ever truly  
loved was Laura, his lost wife. Why, why couldn't David understand that? To accuse her of being a monster…well,  
Carolyn had never truly warmed up to her, finding her rather haughty and witchy, but she couldn't deny Laura had held  
Roger in some sort of spell. Hell, even with their marital problems that came later, Uncle Roger was always devoted to  
her. Why couldn't David leave well enough alone and not bring up the past and that terrible, terrible lie he had told?

The unusually sunny day had shifted quickly to a typical chilly Collinsport autumn evening. With the darkening midnightblue  
sky came the expected biting breeze. Carolyn rubbed her arms, wishing she hadn't thoughtlessly left Collinwood  
without a sweater. She had been so eager to get to town, Fridays being her shopping days. However, when she'd arrived  
at her favorite department store, the window was broken and barred off by police tape. The place was in a bustle of  
officers and frightened workers. When Carolyn asked one of the harried shopgirls what was going on, she was told  
tersely that this shop and a few other women's department stores had been the victims of mysterious break-ins during  
the past couple of weeks. No evidence remained to identify the criminal, yet somehow whoever it was had made off with  
enough outfits to make up an entire wardrobe.

Carolyn simply took this as further proof the town was getting crazier and crazier, and only felt mildly disappointed at  
being thwarted in her efforts to add to her own ever-expanding wardrobe.

She shivered again as another gust of wind stirred the trees around her. She started taking note of the darkening forest  
and how very alone she was at the moment.

Her eyes darted around, trying to stamp down on a rising sense of panic. So dark all of a sudden…the untrimmed trees  
were shapeless giants in the dying day, the branches sinewy arms reaching out for her.

 _Don't think about the attacks…don't think about the attacks._

She put her head down and quickened her pace.

But halted at a sound not too far off: animals howling from the hills just beyond the forest.

Her heart practically stopped in her chest.

 _Are…are those dogs?_

 _Or are they…._

 _Some kind of "new breed of wild animal"?_

Carolyn gave up any pretense of bravery and ran. The wind picked up and the branches swayed like beckoning bones,  
and the baying grew sharper and more frenzied, the number of animals in the eerie chorus multiplying.

All at once Carolyn stopped, eyes wide and body trembling as the large bushes in front of her began moving and rustling  
far more actively than the breeze should have allowed. Something was in there. _Something was in there. Something was_  
 _in there something was in there._

And it was coming out.

A tall figure stumbled out into her path, reaching for her.

She shrieked.

A plaintive voice tried soothing her. "Please, Miss Carolyn…please…I ain't…I ain't gonna hurt you…."

Carolyn put down her hands that had been covering her face, her eyes even wider than before. _"Willie?"_

The pale, gaunt figure moved into the light. Willie Loomis looked drained and spent, eyes brimming with numb, resigned  
terror.

His lips trembled as he raised his hand again. His trembling was far worse than the frightened Carolyn's. "You know I  
wouldn't hurt you, don't you?" He asked in a small voice, so meek Carolyn couldn't believe this was Willie Loomis in front  
of her.

He had been snide and dismissive of her when he first arrived in Collinwood, when she was a fifteen-year-old high  
school freshman. Their meetings were limited to him calling her a spoiled brat under his breath and rolling his eyes  
whenever she spoke, and she returned his kindness with cutting remarks about his drinking and shabby work around  
the grounds.

Then around Junior year of high school, she noticed him taking in her maturing form with roving eyes and sleazy grins.

These days when she met his eyes, he'd no longer roll them but instead raise his eyebrows suggestively.

Once he even winked and touched the tip of his upper-lip with his tongue.

So how could this sad, faded shambles of a man be that same creep?

She finally found her voice, but withdrew slightly as she spoke. "Where have you been, Willie? You've been gone for a  
month!"

His haunted eyes wandered from her face as he awkwardly stuck his hands in his jean pockets. "Oh, y'know…I've been  
around." He screwed up his mouth, and for the world it looked to Carolyn like he was trying not to cry.

"But…doing what?"

"I…I don't know," he shrugged, looking at the ground. "Just…odd jobs here and there."

Carolyn remembered the robberies. "Willie, you're not in any sort of trouble, are you?" She asked in a low voice.  
His head jerked up and he stared at her wildly. "What do you mean, trouble?"

"There've…there've been some…some robberies around town."

He grimaced then shook his head determinedly, averting his eyes. "No. No. That wasn't me," he said too quickly to be  
convincing.

Carolyn was about to heatedly accuse him otherwise when she noticed how his arms trembled, how slumped his  
posture was, how very pale and sickly his face was. Always a slender man, he now looked positively bony.

For all the stuck-up fronts she put on, Carolyn had a kind heart. "Are you sick, Willie?"

Willie laughed here, and by far it was the most pitiable thing he'd done yet. "Sure. Sure, I'm sick." Then he put his face in  
his hands and broke into tears.

Forgetting every fear she had of the man, Carolyn rushed forward and put her arm around his shoulders. "Willie! Willie,  
what is it?"

"It's nothin', it's nothin', Carolyn," he shuddered into his hands.

"Oh, really? So you're crying over nothing, then? Look, you're not well. Let me help you get back to Collinwood"—

"No, no, I just need"—

"Don't argue with me, Willie Loomis! I'm not leaving this place or letting you leave unless you come with me _right now_."

* * *

"Mother!" Carolyn cried as she entered Collinwood, supporting the increasingly exhausted and protesting Willie on her  
arm.

"Look, Carolyn, I don't need help. I need to…I need to get outta here…."

"Hush, Willie. You don't know what's good for you. Mother!"

"Yes, yes, I'm coming, dear, I'm coming," Liz said wearily as she exited the drawing room from where she'd been going  
over the cannery's accounts. She quickly changed moods at the sight in front of her.

"Good Lord! What is this?"

"I found him in the woods, Mother. I think he's sick."  
Elizabeth was at a loss. She absolutely detested the man, and hated the sight of him touching her daughter no matter  
the circumstance, yet Carolyn certainly appeared correct: he looked terrible.

"Please…." he groaned. "Please, just let me go. It's getting dark. I need…I need to get to the Old House."

Elizabeth frowned. "Why do you need to get to the Old House, Willie?"

He shivered. "I…I…." His head lolled down to his chest.

"Carolyn, help me get him to the drawing room," Elizabeth said swiftly, taking his other arm.

Once they settled him in, lying him down on the sofa, Elizabeth instructed Carolyn to get more brandy from the kitchen.

Then Elizabeth pulled up a chair to the sofa and started questioning him.

Though her words were harsh, her tone was surprisingly subdued, taking into account his condition. "What on earth do  
you think you're doing back here after being gone so long, and upsetting my daughter into the bargain?"

Willie shook his head weakly on the sofa cushion, eyes squeezed shut. "I didn't mean to upset her none. I won't trouble  
you no more. I…I'm leavin'."

"Leaving?" She asked taken aback. "Then why did you even come back?"

"I wasn't…I wasn't comin' back here. I was headin' to the Old House."

Elizabeth straightened, immediately on the alert. "So you said. Why were you going there, Willie?"

He swallowed. "To…to check it out."

"And why, pray tell, would you want to do that?"

 _"I'm afraid because I asked him to, Mrs. Stoddard."_

Elizabeth turned around to the stranger standing in the foyer. Blanching, Elizabeth practically overturned her chair as she  
stood up, not believing her eyes.

The very image of Josette DuPres stood in front of her.

"What…how…?" Elizabeth managed to get out.

It was the same woman, she reasoned, but dressed differently. She was attired modestly, wearing a plain but  
fashionably cut white dress and neat black shoes over her brown stockings. Her thick, silky ringlets were pulled back by  
a velvet ribbon. A light, lilac sweater was folded neatly over her arm. The only decorative item she wore was the rather  
ostentatiously-sized ruby ring on her finger. She couldn't have been much older than Carolyn.

She was so strangely innocent-looking. She was unbelievably beautiful.

With large gentle eyes, the girl tentatively stepped forward.

In the sweetest, most tender voice Elizabeth had ever heard, the girl spoke. "Do forgive me for entering without asking  
your permission, Mrs. Stoddard, but the door was open and I forgot myself when I saw poor Willie in this wretched  
condition."

Her remarkably pale face filled with touching concern, she flew to Willie's side and knelt down, gently feeling his

forehead.  
"Oh, poor Willie! I told you, dear man, I told you not to exert yourself when you still haven't fully recovered from your  
accident."

"Accident?" Elizabeth's confusion and shock kept her from noticing Willie flinch and whimper at the girl's touch. His eyes  
were pictures of absolute panic as they darted back-and-forth between the two women. "What accident? Just who are  
you, Miss? You look…you look exactly like…."

"Like Josette DuPres?" The young woman smiled slightly. "So Willie tells me. No surprise, actually. I _am_ Josette  
DuPres."

Elizabeth backed away a few steps, shaking her head.

Josette rushed to reassure her. "Oh, please, forgive my clumsy joke. I am one of the descendants of the original  
Josette's cousins. I was named after her."

Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. "Goodness, you gave me quite a fright."

Josette smiled beguilingly at her, and Elizabeth thought to herself that she had never seen such a gorgeous creature,  
never seen such a radiant smile. "I do apologize for not introducing myself earlier, and now doing so under such  
awkward conditions. But you see, I…." she blushed charmingly. "I suppose I'm rather awkward in general. I've not been  
much around society."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm from Martinique. My parents thought they had been cheated out of an inheritance, and thinking they were poor, they  
left me at a convent not far from the coast when I was still a child, leaving me as a reminder of my heritage the papers  
that had belonged to the original Andre and Josette, and this ring. I positively grew up on these items, cherishing them.  
Really, they are all I've known of the outside world for the past fourteen years. When it came time for me to take my vows,  
I decided I couldn't. Not until I visited Collinsport. Not until I visited…" she looked meaningfully at Elizabeth through long  
thick lashes, "…the Old House."

Realization dawned on Elizabeth. "Your ancestral home," she murmured.

Josette inclined her head. "Exactly. When I wasn't devouring the diaries of Andre and Josette, the business papers  
detailing the deed to the Old House, or telling my beads, I studied books on house renovation and interior design." Shy  
again, she spoke in subtly embarrassed, dulcet tones, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I've been nursing a  
certain dream for a while now. My parents are long dead, and with no other acquaintance in the world, I've been  
dreaming of restoring the Old House. And…and…." She looked up apologetically, appealingly. "And perhaps living  
there?" She said questioningly, watching Elizabeth's face carefully.

Her doe eyes were so sincere and hypnotic that Elizabeth came close to giving her permission on the spot. Pulling  
herself together, she said instead, "Won't you please sit down?"

"Thank you."

Seated, Elizabeth studied her silently for a few moments. The girl looked serene and angelic, her expression kind and  
vibrant. Her hands were folded quietly in her lap, her posture straight. Her large eyes stared directly but sweetly into  
Elizabeth's.

Elizabeth shook her head, feeling like she had fallen into some sort of trance staring at the young beauty. "How old are  
you, Josette?"

"Just twenty."

"And how did you meet Willie?"

She cast her eyes down, looking guilty. Willie shifted uncomfortably on the sofa as she spoke. "Poor Willie. It's all my  
fault he's in this wretched condition."

"How do you mean? You referred to some sort of accident."

"It was stupid of me, rash and stupid. Before I left the convent, I decided I needed to learn how to…how to… _drive_ ," she  
said the word cautiously in her slight French accent, and Elizabeth was amused by how foreign the word must be to this  
naïve convent-bred girl. "Well, I wasn't very good at it, but somehow I got my…my _license_ anyways. I rented a _car_ once I  
arrived in New York, and one of the first things I did on entering Collinsport was hit poor Willie about a month ago as he  
was crossing an empty road in the middle of the night!"

Elizabeth's eyes widened. "Indeed!"

Josette laughed self-deprecatingly. "Oh, I was mortified. Hysterical. They teach you a little nursing in the convent, so I  
was able to ascertain he had a mild concussion. He came to all right and insisted I not take him to a hospital, and that  
his employers would be furious with him for being out so late at night. He had…he had been _drinking_ ," she whispered  
tactfully.

Elizabeth solemnly nodded her head.

"Well…I felt so responsible for him, you see. I…I volunteered to take him to the house I was going to rent and let him  
sleep in one of the rooms."

Elizabeth interrupted. "You let a strange man you'd never met sleep in the same house as you?"

Josette looked up alarmed. "Wasn't it the right Christian thing to do?" she asked.

Elizabeth suddenly felt so maternally toward the innocent creature that her chest tightened.

Josette continued. "Well, after a few days he seemed to be feeling better and volunteered to help me out a little. Oh, you  
know, with various tasks around the house. When I discovered he'd been working here, I eagerly inquired all about you  
and your family. He told me that no one was living in the Old House, and hadn't really since Josette and Andre left almost  
two hundred years ago.

"Just today he seemed to be feeling even better, and volunteered to look over the Old House while I pleaded my case  
with you. What a terrible nurse I am," she said, looking in Willie's direction. "I judged wrongly. It was too much exertion for  
him. I feel absolutely terrible about it."

Willie swallowed, his face paralyzed in fear.

Again, Elizabeth failed to notice his discomfort. "Well, it sounds like you've had quite a welcome to Collinsport, Ms.  
DuPres."

"Oh, please," she replied, standing up and putting forward a small, graceful hand. "Call me Josette, Mrs. Stoddard."  
Elizabeth smiled, touched by the simple charm of Josette's good manners. She took her hand. "Only if you call me  
Elizabeth in return."

"Certainly, Elizabeth. And if I may…." She blushed again. "I don't mean to be forward, but Willie led me to believe you  
weren't quite satisfied with his performance as your servant?"

Elizabeth glared at him while she answered. "That would be an understatement."

"Oh, then, please," Josette said eagerly, resting a light hand on Elizabeth's arm. "Let him work for me. My parents died  
leaving behind an inheritance far vaster than they realized they possessed. It's all gone to me. If you allow me, Willie and  
I will restore the Old House to its former glory, and all I ask in return is that I can stay there." Her eyes gleamed  
reverentially. "There I will really feel home."

Elizabeth was amazed. "You really want Willie to work for you? But…but look, he's given us so much trouble. Are you  
sure, a woman alone"—

"Don't you think, Mrs. Stoddard, that everyone deserves a second chance?" Josette asked softly.

Elizabeth paused. She considered those words. Eventually she smiled, relenting. "All right, Josette. You may hire Willie if  
you must. I assume you have no problem with that arrangement, Willie?"

He willed himself to keep his eyes free of fear. He could feel those other eyes burning into the side of his face, warning him how to answer. "Uh…uh, yeah, yeah. That's, that's great."

"As for the Old House, Josette," Elizabeth went on, "It's really not in my hands but yours. Technically, the deed still holds  
true, and I can think of no one in my household who'd protest the decision that it go to the only DuPres who claims it."

Josette clasped her hands together in a uniquely antiquated gesture that still managed to look delightfully artless. "Oh,  
marvelous!" She exclaimed in that musical voice. "Thank you, Elizabeth. Thank you so, so much."

Waiting a few beats, Willie cleared his throat and then sat up on the sofa. "If that's the case, guess I better head over  
there and start puttin' some of your stuff in the place, huh?"

Josette sped to his side, her back to Elizabeth. As such, Elizabeth couldn't see that Josette's eyes were contradicting her  
following words. "Oh no, Willie! I wouldn't hear of it! Not after you've relapsed this way! No, you're going right back to the  
rental house and going to sleep."

Elizabeth was also unable to see Willie's face, so she couldn't see him following Josette's eyes closely, following some  
hidden prompt he found in their depths. "No…no, I wasn't sick again. I hate to tell ya, but I was hittin' the bottle. I know, I  
know I promised I wouldn't, Josette, but I was just so nervous comin' back here again after bein' away so long. I was just  
a little hung-over. I'm okay now."

Josette shook her head, but the corners of her delicate mouth turned upward in an encouraging little smile. "I don't  
believe you, Willie."

"Naw, it's true." He stared deeply, very deeply in Josette's eyes, and as if a power beyond his own was helping him, he  
stood up swiftly and effortlessly. Elizabeth was astounded by the renewed color in his cheeks. "See?" He said, holding  
his arms out. "Good as new." He laughed awkwardly.

Elizabeth blinked. "My, he certainly looks like a new man. He must have had a very brief hang-over."  
Stifling the satisfaction in her face, Josette turned mildly fretting eyes instead to the female head of Collinwood's  
household. "Still, do you think it's wise to let him work right now?"

"Hey, I can answer that," Willie said, painfully affecting carelessness. "I'm, I'm healthy as…" he swallowed again.

"Healthy as a horse! Ha, ha! Well," he took long strides toward the door. "I ain't givin' either of you a chance to say  
otherwise. I'm headin' out there."

Carolyn entered the room with a bottle of brandy and a glass in her hands. "Willie," she called in alarm seeing him go.

"Willie, where are you going?" He slammed the door shut behind him.

Carolyn shook her head in disbelief. "Good grief, Mother, what on earth was"—

She stopped and her mouth hung open as she saw Josette. She looked questioningly to her mother.

Elizabeth laughed. "Don't worry, dear. It isn't a ghost." She gestured toward Josette. "This is Josette DuPres, a  
descendent of one of the original DuPres cousins. She's going to renovate and live in the Old House."

"Oh, uh, how do you do?"

"Josette, this is my daughter, Carolyn."

A look of shy excitement in her lovely face, Josette stepped eagerly forward, shaking Carolyn's hand. Running dancing  
eyes over Carolyn's face, Josette said in a quiet voice, "I've never had many friends, Carolyn. I hope we'll be close."  
Carolyn looked at her neat but plain dress, her gorgeous hair simply arranged, her appealing face, and immediately felt  
a strong serge of protective camaraderie towards her. "Well, sure! It'll be nice having another fresh face around here."

She shook her head, giggling. "Gee, but it sure is crazy how much you look like the original Josette's portrait! And I  
thought Barnabas was going to be the only lookalike around here, seeing as you're always going on about how much he  
looks like that portrait in the Old House, Mother."

"Barnabas? What Barnabas?" Neither mother nor daughter noticed the sudden tight and almost metallic-sounding note  
in Josette's quietly urgent voice.

The front door slammed shut, capturing their attention. David ran into the room, straight to Carolyn. "Carolyn, I'm sorry I  
made you angry earlier. Do you forgive me?"

"Oh, of course, I do, David!" She said, running her hand fondly through his hair. "Don't be such a goose!"

David's eyes suddenly snapped fire as he saw Josette. "I knew it! I knew it! You're the ghost! I knew she'd show up!" He  
pointed accusingly at Josette. "See, I told you, Barnabas! Barnabas?"

Barnabas, hearing the commotion from where he was hanging up their coats, wearily entered the drawing room.  
"All right, sirrah, what trouble are you stirring now"—

He looked as if he were to faint.

Josette was still as a porcelain sculpture, except that her eyes were alive with fire. She seemed not to breathe at all, but  
her nostrils flared with suppressed emotion. She was a very different picture from the timid girl who had entered the  
room.

The two stared at each other, one understanding more than the other the heat, the recognition between them that went  
deep. Deep. As if they had met countless times before, and had been only waiting for their next inevitable encounter. And  
nothing had changed in the meantime, but everything, everything was different.

Not quite understanding the silent stares the two were sharing, Elizabeth stepped forward. "Forgive my nephew David,  
Josette. He has a rather active imagination." She gestured toward Barnabas. "This is his tutor, my cousin from England,  
Barnabas Collins."

"Barnabas Collins," Josette whispered in a thin voice, the uneasy light in her eyes flickering and snapping.

Barnabas was still at a loss. "Cat got your tongue, teach?" Carolyn teased. "This is the original Josette's cousin. Her  
name's also Josette DuPres. Looks just like her namesake. Sound like a familiar scenario?"

Still staring, Barnabas laughed lightly. "Yes! What an odd coincidence." Clearing his throat, he advanced with  
outstretched hand. "It is very good to meet you, Ms. DuPres," he said in an unconsciously husky voice, unwillingly drawn  
into those eyes that had haunted him unceasingly for a month. Possibly his whole life.

At the touch of his hand on hers, Josette's entire being suffused with warmth. Her smile was slow and languorous, and  
nearly undid Barnabas. She stared calmly and ecstatically into his disbelieving eyes.

 _"Please,"_ she whispered, carrying the scent of jasmine on her breath, _"Call me Josette."_

* * *

Willie marched woodenly up the basement steps at the Old House, willing himself not to think about what he'd left  
behind down there.

After closing the door behind him, he turned around and gasped in dread.

Josette stood before him, quiet and remote.

Her gentle voice spoke without expression. "Are they there?"

He shivered, rubbing his forearm. He could only manage a nod, staring at her little feet.

He flinched again as she tenderly took his hand in hers, the ruby ring brushing against his fingers.

"You're so very good to me, Willie."

He only nodded again. Looking away, he could just make out the calm and pleasant smile on her lips.  
But then he stared in hysterical pain at his hand.

"No! Josette, stop!"

"Why didn't you tell me, Willie?" Her quiet voice had a new steely bite in it. She increased the pressure on his hand.

His knees buckled as he grabbed at her wrist. "No! No! Please stop! Why didn't I tell you…tell you what? Oh, please,  
Josette!"

He was on his knees now, sobbing. Her grip grew tighter and tighter.

"You didn't tell me about him." This steely voice was a different animal from the melodious one used in Collinwood, but it  
still maintained its quiet tone.

"About who? Who?" He asked in agony, face red and teeth clenched.

 _"Barnabas."_

Willie cried out. "You're breakin' my hand! Please stop, please!"

 _"You didn't tell me my love was alive."_

"OH, GOD, PLEASE STOP!"

Taking some sort of warped pity at last, she threw him away from her.

He collapsed on the floor, breathing heavily as he used what little strength he had left to massage his injured hand.

She knelt down gracefully beside him, and whispered voluptuously into his ear, "Why didn't you tell me? _Jealous?"_

He trembled as her breath stirred the hair on his neck. He swallowed against his dry throat. "I forgot…I forgot he was here and that you was engaged to his ancestor. He…he arrived the night I…the night I…."

"The night I hit you with my car?" Her laughter was like tingling bells.

He felt nauseous. He nodded his head weakly.

Gently taking his injured hand in spite of his frightened whimper, Josette kissed it and laid it against her cool check.

"You're forgiven," she crooned.

With equal delicacy, she replaced his hand on the ground beside his weary head. After smoothing his hair as Carolyn  
did David's, Josette stood.

"I can't stay angry with you, Willie. I can't stay angry with anyone right now. I have my Barnabas back." Her low voice  
trembled with joy. "As if he were waiting for me…waiting to forgive me and bring me happiness at last…."

Her eyes wandered around the Old House's expansive sitting room, hearing in her memory past words of love  
murmured there centuries ago.

Then her eyes found it.

On top of the mantelpiece, where it had always been.

His portrait.  
She approached it as a Novice approaches a rendering of the Crucifixion. She stared at his noble brow, his haughty eyes  
masking a rich, generous soul. In his hand was the wolf-headed cane, never out of his sight, until that dreadful, dreadful night when all hope died in Josette's life.

"Never again, my love," she said trancelike. "Never again will I see you ripped away from me. This time," her hand  
reached out toward his proud gaze, "This time not even death shall part us."

A long silence followed only punctuated by Willie's shuddered breathing.

Then in a hard, unyielding tone, Josette asked, "All is prepared for the day?"

"Yes," Willie answered tonelessly, refusing to face her from where he still crouched on the floor by the staircase. The  
entire house was coated in dust, obscuring the interior's magnificence and opulence. But Josette would see to it her  
father's rightful house was once again the gleaming mansion worthy of the DuPres name.

"My sleeping arrangements…and my supper?"

Whimpering again, Willie said reluctantly, "Yes, yes. It's all down there."

"Thank you, Willie. Goodnight," she answered silkily. She moved slowly to the basement door, and disappeared behind  
it.

Willie covered his ears so he didn't have to hear the animal's cries. Then he surrendered himself to his sobs.

His sole audience was the little figure outside the window looking in unnoticed. Staring sadly at the weeping man, the boy put his flute to his lips, and in notes so low no one could hear, played the last two bars of "Frere Jacques."

* * *

 **A/N: First of all, I'd like to thank TorontoBatFan for catching my dumbassery in the first chapter concerning the**  
 **impossibility of Barnabas taking a ship from London to Bangor. Good catch!**

 **And thanks to everyone for their reviews so far! I wasn't expecting so many for one chapter, so I'm very flattered!**  
 **I've gotten a few questions about what version I'm going for here, and what actors I see in the parts. I started out**  
 **with the original principally in mind when it comes to plot and characterization, leaving the performers open to your**  
 **favorite interpretations. And while that last part holds true, I do also find myself heavily influenced by the plot from**  
 **the revival as well, which I frankly love just as much as the original.**

 **But there should be plenty of original twists in here as well.**  
 **Again, with the actors I really am trying to leave it up to the reader. I'm probably influenced by certain performers**  
 **when I'm writing, but I don't want that to take away from any of the other versions. The only interpretation I'm seeing**  
 **clearly is John Karlen as Willie. Nancy Barrett might be a little more the Carolyn I have in mind than the others, but**  
 **hey, see who you want to see in the roles, I ain't here to judge! Frankly, while writing I'm seeing an amalgamation of**  
 **all my favorites in the characters. They're all there.**

 **Thanks again, and I'll update as soon as I can! Let me know if you have any other questions**


	3. Chapter 3

When Elizabeth revealed the next morning during breakfast Josette's intentions to restore and live in the Old House,  
Roger and David for once found themselves in agreement.

"Aunt Elizabeth, she _can't!_ "

"Now, really, Liz, this is just about the limit. What do we even know about this woman? Why, I haven't even met her! Your  
total disregard for"—

"Stefan lives there, Aunt Elizabeth! That's where we meet to play!"

"David, don't interrupt me. What was I saying? Ah, yes. Liz, your total disregard for common sense sometimes staggers  
me. Why, I remember when were young and you"—

"He warned me about her! Warned me she wouldn't be who she says she is! Warned me"—

"David, I just told you not to interrupt"—

" _Enough_ ," Liz announced frustrated. "You are both overreacting. I see no reason why she shouldn't live there. After all, the  
house is just sitting there collecting dust not being of use to anyone. And David, I'm sure she wouldn't mind you playing  
there every once in a while."

"Hm," Roger sniffed skeptically. "You know, for once my son does bring up a good point. How do we even know this girl's  
who she says she is? She could be taking us all for a ride."

Carolyn cut in. "You wouldn't be saying that, Uncle Roger, if you saw her! She looks _exactly_ like the portrait of the original  
Josette in Barnabas's room."

"Yes, it really is uncanny," Elizabeth said shaking her head, still thinking back to their strange encounter the night before.

"You met her, Barnabas. Wouldn't you say so? Barnabas?"

Barnabas started in his seat, miles away from the family argument, studying in his mind a face with large eyes and a  
delicate yet wild look. "Forgive me. What was that, Elizabeth?"

"Josette. Don't you think she looks remarkably like the portrait in your room?"

His glassy gaze roamed to some undefined area to her left. "Oh, that. Yes, remarkably…."

Carolyn smirked, surmising what was going through his head.

Roger shrugged, resigned. "Well, I suppose if any good has come out of this, it's that she took Willie with her, thank God.

She can have him. And I suppose the whole thing is out of our hands, thanks to that blasted deed. Although if we really  
wanted to, I'm sure we could have it contested. It's almost two hundred years old, for Christ's sake! We should at least  
collect rent money."

"Oh, Roger, don't be so stingy. She'll need every cent of her inheritance to renovate the place and pay property taxes. Oh,  
which reminds me," Elizabeth said as she pushed out her chair. "I have an appointment in town with my lawyer about  
setting up Josette as the new owner. Anyone want to ride along on my way into town?"

"I'll come, Mother," Carolyn said, always eager for an opportunity to leave the grounds. "Just let me grab my things."

"All right, dear, I'll wait in the car."

Carolyn was halfway out the dining room when she stopped, an idea forming. Eyeing Barnabas slyly from where he still  
dreamt at his seat, she said in a purposefully artless voice, "Say, Barnabas. You know an awful lot about the Old House  
and its original set-up. I bet you could be a lot of help to Josette in renovating the old dump." She tried to keep herself  
from looking too scheming. "You should go over there sometime today and ask her if she needs anything."

Barnabas considered. Then he, too, tried to hide the look on his face. "I…I suppose I might be of some use. Yes, an  
excellent idea, Carolyn, thank you. I'll head over this evening after David's lessons."

Carolyn happily took off toward her room. Hey, matchmaking should make Collinwood a little less dull.

* * *

That evening in the Old House's kitchen, Willie took out a handkerchief from his jeans pocket, wiping away the sweat  
from his forehead. The kitchen was the second room he'd swept, dusted, and polished that day, apart from his cramped  
bedroom, located in an isolated area of the house originally designated for the servants.

He straightened when he heard a strange, sweet music, like chimes. It came from the parlor, the first room he'd fixed up.

Entering, he found Josette sitting placidly in the armchair, gazing at Barnabas's portrait. In her hands she held an  
exquisitely ornamented music box, the source of the distinct and lovely tune.

Willie was hesitant to disturb her, as the combination of the music and Barnabas's portrait had brought a melancholy  
serenity to her features.

But then she held out her hand to his, gaze still locked on the image of the man on the mantelpiece.

"Come here, Willie," she said in her faraway voice, sweeter and tenderer now than a lullaby.

Quietly, Willie pulled up a chair beside her.

"Did you sell the diamonds I gave you?" She asked absently.

"Yeah."

"Good. I'll give you more before the night is done."

After a few moments, Willie indicated the music box. "Where'd you find that, Josette?"

She caressed the instrument dreamily, regarding it with a sweet smile. "From the room I slept in while I stayed here, 172  
years ago. I went looking for it while you slaved away in the kitchen." She turned her glorious eyes to Willie then,  
sparkling with gratitude. "Everything looks just lovely, Willie. You're too good to me." Pure affection shone in her dolldelicate  
features.

Willie felt his face reddening, his lips twitching into a grin.

He knew her. Knew how in an instant this gentle kindness could like whiplash turn to coldness, cruel, unyielding  
coldness, that low, musical voice with its slightest hint of French accent turning brittle and metallic in its twisted rage.

Yet at moments like this, when her whole body seemed to radiate a peculiarly calming warmth and she gazed at him that  
way, Willie, for all his fear and revulsion, came close to forgetting what he knew and could not find it in him to hate her.

"Aw, it's nothin', nothin', Josette. No trouble at all. Heh, actually feels kinda good, y'know, using my hands. You couldn't  
tell back at Collinwood because I was drunk half the time, but I've always been kind of a handyman. But uh," he said,  
pointing to the music box, "Where'd it come from, anyhow? I mean, where's it from originally?"

Though her face still radiated gentleness, her smile disappeared and a sadder look took over. "Barnabas had it made  
for me specially in Boston. 'Twas an early wedding present."

Willie swallowed, his curiosity fighting with the desire to avoid pushing her too far talking about the past, not wanting to  
suddenly upset her. "Barnabas…I mean, the new Barnabas living at Collinwood…he, he told me his namesake died  
falling off Widow's Hill."

Josette immediately closed the music box, and stood with her back to Willie, head down.

"Oh, boy," Willie said quickly, approaching her hesitantly. "I, I'm sorry, Josette. Forget I brought it up."

"It's all right, Willie," she said in a remote voice. "Yes, it's true. That's how he died." She turned sharply about, and Willie flinched at the fire glowing in her eyes. "But this time will be different. This time my Barnabas will come to me, and won't  
misunderstand." Her mouth was a firm, taut line, eyes blazing.

Willie was nervous. "How…how do you mean?"

A knock on the door interrupted them. After a still moment, Josette nodded to Willie, signaling him to open it.  
Barnabas entered, wearing a light jacket and carrying several folders in his arms, stifling the anticipation in his eyes.

His figure was so strong, so striking and tall, that Josette had to master herself not to show too much emotion. "Mr.  
Collins," she said, radiant smile playing over her lips. She stepped forward, hand out. "How pleasing it is to see you  
again, so soon."

"I hope I'm not intruding," he said in that voice so familiar Josette began to ache, deep in the pit of her stomach.

"Oh, no, not at all. I enjoy the company."

Barnabas cleared his throat, willing himself not to get lost in her iridescent gaze. "I came to offer my assistance."

"Your assistance?" Josette asked archly. "How very chivalrous of you! In what way would you like to assist me, Mr.  
Collins?" Her eyelids dipped demurely and teasingly.

Barnabas forgot where he was for a moment. "Please," he said barely above a whisper. "Call me Barnabas."

Her voice was equally low, pronouncing the name like one savoring a fine wine. _"Barnabas."_

"Heh huh," he said less than elegantly. He shook his head, thoroughly embarrassed. "Erm, what I mean to say is I offer  
you my assistance in restoring the house." He held up the rather musty folders. "I have here many of the original papers  
detailing the layout of this house when my namesake's father constructed it after landing in Maine. I've studied these  
since childhood, so I fancy myself somewhat learned on the topic. I would love the chance to go over these with you, and  
help in any way I can in getting everything as exact as possible."

She clapped with impish glee. "Oh, how wonderful! I would be thrilled, and I'm sure dear Willie would appreciate the  
help, wouldn't you, Willie?"

Willie, who'd been standing stiffly by the door since Barnabas's entrance, didn't know quite how to answer.  
"Uhhhh….yeah," he said at last.

"Excellent!" Barnabas declared. "I can hardly wait to get started. Is it all right if I jump in right now? Or were you settling  
down for the evening?"

"You will find, _Barnabas_ , that I am a bit of a…oh, what is the expression…a night owl?" She answered coyly. "I am usually  
busy organizing my finances during the day, so nights are when I work."

"I'm quite the nocturnal man myself! Which is fortunate, since I'll probably be occupied during the day teaching young  
David. Anyways, this area is best seen silhouetted by nightfall, wouldn't you agree?"

Josette observed him closely. "It appears you share my enthusiasm for Collinsport and its history, Barnabas."

"Yes," he breathed, staring at her. "I'm a bit of a romantic in that way."

Josette smiled.

Barnabas's eyes fell on the music box in her hands. "Ah! It seems you've already discovered _un petit bijou_. May I?"  
Brimming with excess emotion, Josette said ecstatically, "Yes, please!" She handed it to him hastily but carefully.  
Barnabas inspected the small object, turning it over with the utmost care. "A music box, correct?"

She could only nod, suddenly unable to speak.

His eyes lit up as he recalled its origins. "Not _the_ music box?"

" ' _The_ ' music box?" She was just barely able to ask.

"That my namesake gave yours." He gestured toward the portrait.

Again, her nod was the only answer she could give. He shook his head in delighted wonderment. "There's much in the  
papers about his specific instructions to the designer in Boston. It was her favorite piece of music."

At last, she licked her lips and whispered, "Open the lid."

The music came out in clear, crisp chimes.

She watched his face eagerly, greedily.

His cheeks grew warm and his eyes tender. Then a strange look of consternation crossed his face.

"What is the matter?"

He blinked rapidly. "Why…call me a delusional nutcase if you will, but…I swear I have heard this music before." His voice  
trailed off as he listened transfixed to the refrain.

Josette's face was triumphantly wild. _"Yes. So have I."_

Willie shuffled his feet awkwardly before disappearing into the back of the house.

* * *

David sat bored in his room, sullenly kicking his wall as he lied on his bed. His bitterness was mounting. Aunt Elizabeth  
was ruining _everything_ letting that…letting that _Josette_ take over the Old House.

Gone was the boy's one refuge, one place where he could go alone to think.

Well, almost alone.

He sighed as he thought of his only friend in the world. The friend who always contacted him at the Old House, David  
reminded himself unhappily. Sure, Stefan popped up occasionally other places, but—

"But what? Do not worry, David. I won't stop playing with you."

"Stefan!" David cried happily at the sound of the pert voice with its French accent. He sat up, ecstatic at the sight of his  
playmate sitting at the corner of his bed.

"Hello, David," the slender young lad said, who appeared ten years old. Aside from his 18th Century get-up, his friendly  
and simple expression also provided a stark contrast to the moody boy who was his only companion. "Why are you so  
sad?"

David glowered. "For a couple reasons. One of them is because you lied to me. You said Barnabas and Josette's ghosts  
were coming back, but they're not ghosts! They're just as alive as I am."

"I never said their ghosts were coming back," Stefan replied, peering down his flute and twirling it around absently.

"You did so! You said"—

"—All I said was that Barnabas and Josette were coming back. You just assumed I meant their ghosts."  
David thought a moment. "Oh," he said at last, realizing his error. That was just like Stefan not to tell him the whole story.

"But…but you did say that Josette wouldn't be who she says she is! What did you mean, Stefan?"

The other little boy stared ahead wistfully. "I can't tell you that yet, David."

"Why not?"

"Never mind why not, David. I just can't."

David had learned by now that Stefan could never be pushed to tell him anything, and that the centuries-old boy would  
reveal what he wanted David to know when the time was right, in his own way. Still, it was always difficult for David to  
restrain his curiosity. "Well…can't you at least tell me whether or not Josette is lying about herself? You don't have to give  
me any details."

Stefan replied carelessly, "I always say what I mean, David. If I said she's not who she says she is, what do you think?"

David was exultant. "Ha! I knew she was a liar, then! You _should_ tell me why, Stefan. Then we could tell everybody the  
truth about her, and then you and I could get the Old House back."

"I am not concerned about that."

"You're not? But…but I thought you lived there!"

Stefan turned his clear blue eyes to David, their expression simple yet inscrutable. "I can live wherever I wish," he said  
with soft frankness.

"Well, then what _are_ you concerned about?"

"Listen, David," Stefan said with a little regret. "I've come to tell you something. And I don't want you to be angry."

"What is it?"

"You won't be able to see me too often for awhile."

David was aghast. "What? Why not?"

"I have to look after someone," he answered cryptically.

"Who?"

Stefan did not reply, only played a few notes on his flute.

"C'mon, Stefan! Answer me," David insisted, face red. "Why are you leaving me?"

"Oh, no, I am not leaving you!" Stefan said anxiously. His countenance was unusually open and affectionate for a boy his  
age. "Dear friend, I would never do that. I will still play with you. Just not as much, at least for a little while."

"For how long?"

"That all depends."

"On what?"

Stefan played a few more notes on his flute.

"Oh, never mind," David groused, turning over on his pillow, away from Stefan. "You never tell me what I really want you to  
tell me."

The flute's music stopped.

Dreading what this meant, David turned over quickly and felt heartbroken at the familiar sight: no trace of Stefan.

David leapt to his feet. "Stefan! Stefan! Wait, Stefan! I didn't mean it! I'm sorry! Come back! _Please_ come back…."

* * *

The Old House had been a disaster area of dust, spider webs, and decaying wood before Josette entered. Two weeks  
after she arrived, along with the help of Barnabas and Willie, the place was transformed.

Every room had been scrubbed and polished, furniture recovered or discarded and replaced with replicas, the proud  
chandelier in the ballroom dazzling and pristine instead of the extended clump of dirt it had been before. The progress  
they made in a short period of time was remarkable.

Often when they winded down after a long night's work, Josette would read to Barnabas from her "namesake's" diary,  
focusing primarily on the passages concerning Barnabas. The words themselves were already vibrant with Josette's  
passion, but it was the vital, tremulous, and strangely vulnerable manner in which she read those words aloud that  
made Barnabas, sitting before her thunderstruck, mad with desire.

And Josette's deep eyes would observe hungrily every shift in his expression, as she watched him over the book.  
Their feelings for each other were indescribable.

Their relationship, their connection, grew deeper every night. Using the renovation as an excuse to come together, they  
gradually began courting in the quietest, most old-fashioned manner imaginable, without a word on either side openly  
addressing the fact.

After reading one particularly romantic passage on the fourteenth night of their labors, Josette shut the diary and  
suggested they celebrate their progress by taking an impromptu moonlight stroll through the woods.

As they walked along the forest's trail, twilight descending on their path, neither spoke for several minutes. They were  
savoring each other's company, and breathing in the scent of pine and wood sap in the crisp breeze.

"Nothing, Barnabas," Josette said at last, closing her eyes, "Nothing compares to the feeling of the wind, the air, the _life_  
upon your face after being so long without it."

"Yes," Barnabas replied, watching her closely, "I suppose you'd know. You were trapped behind the walls of that convent  
for a very long time, I imagine."

The shade hid the bitterness in her face. "Centuries," she answered.

Protective passion made Barnabas squeeze the small hand rested in the crook of his elbow. "There is no need anymore  
to remember that time, Josette. You're where you belong now."

His heart caught in his throat as she turned her face to his, the moonlight highlighting the fragile yet vivid emotions there.  
"Yes, _mon ami_ ," she whispered, squeezing his hand in return. "Just where we belong." And then she smiled, one of the  
many sights recently that made getting out of bed worth it for Barnabas, always impatient now for evening to arrive.

He swallowed, seizing suddenly on another topic. "I spoke to Willie before we left. He says the portrait of the original Barnabas is ready to be picked up from the restorer's shop tomorrow afternoon. Our reformed helper will pick it up for  
us."

"Wonderful," Josette said, hardly listening as she greedily took in every detail of Barnabas's profile and the varying  
modulations of his voice, so exactly like the profile and voice of the man she lost in that very portrait.

"You know," Barnabas said, scratching his nose with embarrassed modesty. "I thought Liz was exaggerating when she'd  
go on about how much I looked like him. But after seeing the portrait up close…." he shook his head.

"The resemblance is amazing, is it not?" Josette asked, eyes remote.

"If I may say so myself."

"You may," she said teasingly. Then in a dreamier, more otherworldly voice, Josette asked, trying to affect childlike fancy,

"Wouldn't it be grand if we—you and I—were in fact the reincarnations of the original Barnabas and Josette?"

Barnabas looked at her surprised. "Well, hello, you little fellow romantic."

Josette laughed merrily. "Yes, I suppose I am." She skillfully masked her crafty expression in a face of innocent inquiry.  
"But just suppose…just suppose…."

Barnabas's voice deepened, finding courage to ask, "And would that, Josette, make us destined to be together?"

Josette stopped walking and stared at him intensely. "Perhaps," her whisper was so low it was almost lost in the wind.

Their moment was broken by a now-familiar sound: a high-pitched whine in the distance, followed by howling.  
Barnabas put his arm around Josette's shoulders. "Don't worry about them."

He was surprised as he looked at her face. Given by the way she stiffened when the howling started, he expected a look  
of fright. Instead, her expression was irritated and gloomy, the large eyes hard—and not unlike a wolf's themselves in  
their mad gleam.

"I am not afraid," she said in a cool, biting voice.

Barnabas tilted his head, studying her. There was so much about her he did not yet understand. Her voice, for instance:  
most of the time it fell with such low, musical delicacy on his ears, but at certain moments—like this one—there was a  
note like steel in it, until there seemed another less fragile being was fighting to get out.

Unsettling as it was, he had to admit the sense of mystery only increased her allure.

"You are a strange creature, Josette," he said lightly, trying to shake her current mood. "When you talk about the original  
Josette's past, or her relationship with the original Barnabas, you seem sometimes so vulnerable, almost frightened. Yet  
at times like this, that would frighten most normal people, you seem only peeved at the interruption to the mood."

Josette quickly rearranged her expression to be softer, more girlish. "Oh, never mind all that. What mood are you  
referring to, exactly?" She purred, eyes wide and coquettish. She coiled her body nearer his. "Remind me."

Barnabas smiled lustfully as he tilted her chin back. Their lips were very close now. They locked eyes.

Then all at once, despite her efforts over the past two weeks to keep this from happening, Barnabas was drawn too  
dangerously into her gaze.

Slowly her curse took over, and she could not suppress the invisible yet potent hypnotic beam pulling him down.

He was under her control.

She couldn't stop it. Couldn't stop the howling that increased in volume all around them, the insistent, maddening  
pounding in her undead veins. Her wild eyes focused on his throat.

The thirst was unimaginable. It soared through her body, shooting warmth to the very roots of her hair.

As the frenzied howling surrounded the pair seemingly at all sides, she felt her fangs protruding just past the edge of her  
upper-lip.

Still in a trance, his body just as warm and pounding as hers, Barnabas unknowingly leaned his head back, allowing her  
access to his neck.

She was aching, her fangs were out, and they were just about to puncture the area where his pulse beat anxiously  
beneath—

 _"No, Josette! Stop, sister!"_

The little voice turned the pounding blood to ice in her veins. Humanity returned to her fevered eyes.

Shaking violently, she asked quietly, disbelievingly, "…Stefan?"

She glanced falteringly behind her.

There, highlighted by the mist surrounding him from further down the path, stood the little boy with his quiet clear gaze.

"You must stop," he addressed her appealingly, yet without any inclination to approach her.

Josette beamed with all her heart. "Stefan! My baby brother!" With wild abandon, she tore off leaving behind the still  
frozen and mesmerized Barnabas. She raced down the path.

Ecstasy took over in her heart where bitterness normally festered. Stefan had come back to her. He reached out for her.  
He loved her still. Her boy….

When she was halfway down the trail, she halted in terror.

The boy was nowhere to be seen.

 _"No,"_ she moaned. She swayed uneasily on her feet. At last, all hope gone, she collapsed to her knees. The ecstasy  
broke in shards around her, like a fist through a mirror. Cold loneliness washed over her. "Stefan, my dear little boy, don't  
leave me again. I…I am sorry." She rocked back-and forth, hugging herself from where she huddled on the dark  
abandoned ground.

The sound of Barnabas's deep, measured breathing from up the path stirred her. He remained under her control. Just  
as suddenly as her blood fever had dissipated at the sound of her brother's voice, it swiftly returned, despite her internal  
pleas begging for respite.

Yet Stefan's memory was still fresh in her mind. She would not shame her brother tonight by taking advantage of her  
Barnabas, stupefied and unwilling before her. But Good God, how her blood fought her resolve! Enraged, she roared to  
the moon, _"I can't help myself, Stefan!"_

She trembled a few moments more, head buried in her hands as she winced on the ground. Then trying, trying with all  
the effort inside her, she stood unsteadily and stumbled to Barnabas.

She shook him lightly, releasing him from her control.

He shook his head, darting his eyes around as he massaged his temples. "What, what was that, Josette? I'm sorry, my  
mind must have wandered."

His breath near her face, his rich voice, his long strong neck tested her resolution. Her blood was stronger than her will.  
She did not have much time. She knew an animal wouldn't satisfy her tonight.

But she would not hurt Barnabas.

"I…I am afraid the chill of the night…I…I'm suddenly not feeling very well."

"Oh, my dear," Barnabas said swiftly, taking off his jacket. "Here, take my"—

"No, no," she interrupted quickly. The warmth of his jacket might prove her undoing. And she would not relent. She must  
wait.

She backed away from him.

"I don't want to put you to any trouble."

"Well, at least let me see you safely back to the Old House."

She suppressed a groan at the thought of his body so near her again. "No," she panted, her voice little more than a  
strained growl. She struggled for coherence. "No, I don't want to take you out of your way. Go…go back to Collinwood.  
The Old House isn't far. I will see myself back."

"But Josette"—

 _"Goodnight, Barnabas."_ She sped away from him, disappearing into the shadows.

She left him staring after her, mystified and hopelessly engrossed. "What a gloriously strange love," he murmured to the  
empty forest.

* * *

Willie was polishing the banisters when the door slammed shut behind him.

He turned around to see Josette leaning exhausted against the doors.

He was about to offer her assistance when he saw the look on her face. The blazing, wolf's gleam in her gigantic eyes.

Then he grew sick with dread.

"No…no," he pleaded tonelessly, shaking his head as he backed into the wall.

"I am sorry, Willie," she whispered harshly through her fangs.

"I…I got a…got a little something for you ready downstairs," he said panicking, desperately grasping onto one last shred  
of hope.

She walked slowly but resolutely toward him until they were but an inch apart. She shook her head wordlessly.

"Oh, please"—he gasped as her fingers brushed his forearm. That horrible, tingling anticipation burned underneath his  
skin, making him ache for her touch even as he instinctively wanted to run, to hide, to push her away.

"Shhh," she said calmingly as he whimpered.

Her other hand caressed his cheek as she willed him to look into her eyes.

His whimpers lost intensity even as they continued. He hurtled down the abyss as he stared into her reddening eyes.

She carefully turned his face away, extending his throat.

Willie squeezed shut his eyes. He clenched his fists, trying to control his trembling.

He gasped as her fangs found what she needed, what she desperately, desperately needed.

The only sound in the great Old House were his periodic moans as Josette glutted herself, burying her head in his  
shoulder as she drank, her hands pinning his fists to their sides.

* * *

Carolyn walked lazily downstairs, her destination the kitchen for a quick snack before settling down in bed. A sharp rap  
on the front door interrupted those intentions.

She frowned at the grandfather clock, checking the time. Who in the right mind would be calling at this late hour? Josette  
sometimes stopped by in the evening, but never this late.

Curious, Carolyn answered the door. When she saw who was standing there, she looked like she was going to vomit.

"Weeeellll!" Announced that all-too familiar brogue, coming out of that slick, smug grin. "If it isn't little Miss Carolyn all grown up! Got nothing to say to your old sweetheart, Jason McGuire?"

* * *

 **A/N: Ha, you thought that scene with Josette and Stefan in the woods was so similar to the scene in the revival that I was**  
 **going to stick with the revival's plot, didn't you? Well POW, Jason McGuire! You never know what crazy stunt I'm**  
 **going to pull. I'm all over the board here. ;)**  
 **Thanks for reading! Hopefully it won't take too long to get the next chapter up.**


	4. Chapter 4

Carolyn regained her composure, narrowing her eyes. "Jason McGuire. I thought I detected the scent of shoe polish,  
cloying aftershave, and grinning desperation in the air."

Jason chuckled sinisterly. "You always were such a wit, my love." She flinched as he patted her cheek, slipping past her  
into the entryway.

"Ah!" He surveyed the house, arms akimbo. "Not a thing has changed. Not a detail. Let's see, how long has it been since  
my last little sojourn here?"

"Three blissful, glorious years," Carolyn told him.

"Three years, yes, that's right." His smirk stretched into his normal snake's grin. "And tell me, Missy, what have I missed  
in the meantime?"

"Well, Jason, now that you ask," Carolyn said in a honeyed voice, mimicking his affable air, "There has been a marked  
improvement in morale since your departure. Children are laughing in the parks, birds are singing, people who weren't  
able to walk before are now"-

"Yes, yes, I get the picture, darlin'," Jason interrupted, the honey in his own voice dripping with the slightest bit of venom.

"Well, you did ask," Carolyn said innocently.

"So I did, dear, so I did. Now, uh, tell me, dear Carolyn, how does my good friend Willie get on here?"

Carolyn gasped, feigning shock. "You don't mean to tell me you two don't keep in touch?"

"Not as much as we'd like, no. But tell me, now: how is he?" There was an edge to his voice Carolyn didn't pick up on.

She shrugged. "Well, why don't you head over to the Old House and ask him yourself?"

Jason frowned. "The Old House?"

"Yes, he's working there now."

Jason's calculating mind hummed along as he speculated aloud, "The Old House…."

He was interrupted from his ruminations by a sharp voice from the stairway. _"Jason."_

"Ahhh, Elizabeth!" He said with fawning exaggeration as Collinwood's matriarch glared down at him. "You grow lovelier  
each time I see you. A trait inherited by your charming daughter, so I see."

Elizabeth marched downstairs. "What do you want _now_ , Jason?" Her words were clipped, controlled.

"I see you two also extend a fond, feminine welcome to weary travelers."

"Enough of this," Liz barked. "Carolyn, go to your room."

Carolyn started, incensed. "Go to my room? Listen, Mother, I'm not eight years old anymore. I have just as much right to  
hear what Jason has to say as you do"—

"Carolyn, don't argue with me!"

"Now, now, ladies," Jason said in his best placating way, "How about we settle for a compromise, eh? Elizabeth, why  
don't we go for a quick drive in your car, you and I? That way Carolyn can stay just where she is, and I can discuss a wee  
bit of business I have with you."

"A drive?" Elizabeth questioned, furrowing her brow. "At this time of night?"

"Oh, I assure you, it won't be for long and won't be very far. The Collinsport Inn, as a matter of fact! I'll buy you a cup of  
coffee in the diner, and then tell you the news I have."

"Mother, don't go," Carolyn pleaded, taking hold of Liz's arm. "You shouldn't leave the grounds with somebody like him."

"You wound me to the quick, Carolyn, m'dear," Jason said, clasping his hands facetiously to his chest. "Why, your mother  
and I have been friends so long that she wouldn't dream I'd harm a hair on her head. Unless, of course," Jason said,  
snake grin growing wider and eyes more narrowed and twinkling, "You'd be all right with Carolyn overhearing what I have  
to say, dear Elizabeth."

Elizabeth inhaled quickly, nostrils flaring. She stewed for a moment. "Very well, Jason," she relented wearily. She  
reached for her coat. "I'll come with you."

Carolyn was distraught. "Oh, Mother, you can't!"

"I'll be fine, Carolyn." Jason opened the door for her.

Another door shut from upstairs. "Was that a knock out front I heard just now?" Roger stopped halfway down the stairs,  
sneering immediately as he saw Jason and Liz leaving.

"McGuire! Liz, where are you going with him?"

"I'll be back soon, Roger," Liz said tiredly.

Jason smiled ingratiatingly at Roger, winking saucily as he closed the door behind them.

As usual, Roger was left fuming in his tracks. Seeing the distress Carolyn was in, he pulled himself together and hurried  
downstairs and put his arm around her shoulders. "There, there, kitten. You know the routine: our charming friend from  
the Emerald Isle will extract a few measly bucks from the Collins trustfund and then will skip off to unknown regions once  
more. Liz will sulk for a few days afterward, but then life will return to normal. Don't worry, I doubt he has any more  
deadbeat friends to pawn off on us."

Carolyn stared sadly at the door. "You know what really bothers me, Uncle Roger? The look on Mother's face when he  
comes. She's not just angry…she's miserable. Resigned and miserable."

* * *

Jason filled the short yet somehow interminable ride to Collinsport Inn with blithe, desultory small talk. Elizabeth did  
nothing to contribute, staring icily ahead at the road, and only putting in the occasional cutting remark when needed, to  
which Jason would reply with his signature disquieting chuckle.

He inquired after Willie, and through Liz's terse replies learned a few more details about his employment under Josette  
DuPres. Like her daughter, Liz didn't notice the almost serpentine hint of suspicion sneak into Jason's eyes.

Arriving at Collinsport Inn, Elizabeth strode purposefully inside toward the diner, Jason hurrying at her heels.

"Well, come on, Jason," she said, "Let's get this over with."

He clutched her gently by the elbow. "Not quite yet, my pet," he steered her toward the stairway leading to the rooms. "I  
might have misled you a wee bit about our destination here at the inn."

Elizabeth's eyes went round. "You want me to go _upstairs_ with you?"

Jason rolled his eyes, momentarily dropping his front of slick civility. "Oh, come now, Liz. You and I aren't blushing  
adolescents. You're no shy schoolgirl and I'm certainly not here to ruin you. No, there's…something I'd like to show you in  
my quarters."

Liz still hesitated.

Jason's face grew stormy. "I didn't have you drag me all the way here for you to balk at something so ridiculous as this."  
Liz wavered uncertainly for a moment and then her shoulders slumped in defeat. She nodded reluctantly, and followed  
Jason upstairs.

Before opening the door, Jason hesitated himself for a moment, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against the doorknob.

"Liz," he said speculatively. "Liz, I know your temper, and I know of your dislike of me. In just a moment that dislike's going to turn to downright loathing, and your temper's going to skyrocket higher than Mount Everest. And yes, I will deserve it, I know. But!" He stuck up his index finger, face sly. "But, before you react with untoward violence, I want you to remember your reputation, and your daughter's."

Elizabeth was very still, very tense. In a low, warning voice, she asked, "Just what have you done, Jason?"

"Well," he said cryptically, grin widening, "For one thing this is not my room," he opened the door and invited her in.

She saw a man with silver hair sitting with his back to her, smoking a cigar as he leaned his elbows out the open  
window.

He turned around upon hearing their entrance.

His mustache drooped and his eyes widened with dread.

Liz clutched the doorknob as she looked past the gray hair and recognized the still handsome, vigorous face behind the  
mustache.

Hers went white as the hair on the back of her neck rose like a cat's when cornered. At last she uttered one disbelieving  
word:

 _"PAUL!"_

Her husband stood slowly, staring with rueful anger at Jason leaning against the wall behind Paul's shaking wife.

"Elizabeth," Paul said resignedly.

She shook her head. "You…you _promised_ …." She pointed an accusing finger behind her at Jason, though she  
continued staring at Paul. " _He_ promised…that you would never come back. That you would never step foot in Collinsport  
again. That you would never, _ever_ come anywhere _near_ Carolyn…."

He flinched imperceptibly at the mention of his daughter.

Jason laid a patronizing hand on her shoulder. "Now, Liz"—

She whipped around, slapping the hand away. "Don't you _dare_ touch me!" She fumed, voice rising. Her fists were  
clenched as she yelled at Jason. "You sneak! You lying, conniving thief! You knew the arrangement! You knew"—

"Calm yourself, woman," Jason snapped. "Remember what I told you just now! Watch that damnable temper of yours!

You want the whole town to know you raised a ruckus up here with the despicable likes of me? Do you want your  
daughter to hear?"

Elizabeth forced herself to calm down at the mention of Carolyn, thinking of what the gossip would be.

No one noticed how Paul's eyes snapped with fire and sick loathing at Jason after his allusion to Carolyn.

In a gravelly but quiet growl, Elizabeth asked staring doggedly at the floor, "What's this all about?"

Jason clapped his hands together, rubbing them as he strutted to the center of the room, putting himself between the  
estranged husband and wife.

"Well, Liz, y'see, it's a little like this. We did have an arrangement, the three of us. But you have to admit, you benefited the  
most from it over the past sixteen, now going on seventeen years."

Liz shook her head, speechless. "I? _I_ am the one who benefited most from it?"

"Aye, you," Jason snarled, glaring at her. "You still hold the purse-strings, don't you, m'lady? Plus you get the spotless  
reputation. And what do we have, Paul and I?"

He gestured toward the stony and silent Mr. Stoddard. "I have to leave town, and Paul here, Paul has to be _dead_. _Dead_ ,  
Elizabeth! Start anew, move all the way to California, where no one had heard of the shamed, departed Paul Stoddard"—

Liz laughed nastily. "Do forgive me if I'm short on sympathy. He only tried to make off with my daughter's inheritance."

Paul turned sharply back to the window, head down as he shoved his fists in his pockets.

Jason held up his hands, relenting. "All right, all right. We're none of us saints, I think we can all agree on that point. But  
we agreed to your terms, didn't we? We'd make ourselves scarce without touching a dime of precious Carolyn's  
inheritance, while to all of Maine Paul Stoddard died in a car accident outside Bangor. Very well, nice and tidy, that. And  
all, Elizabeth, all that we asked in return was a little financial assistance over the years."

"A little?" Elizabeth asked, laughing aghast. "You call what you've taken from me over the years a _little_?"

"Compared to what we _could have been_ asking…." Jason shrugged.

Staring at Paul's silent back, Liz asked, "Well, what of it? What do you want _now_?"

Jason strode toward her, face red with suppressed anger. "The fact of the matter is, Liz, that the last time I came to town,  
you gave me _table scraps_."

Liz sighed. "Jason, as I explained, money is tight these days! The canneries weren't doing well back then, and we  
agreed I'd take Willie on in exchange! And believe me, that was a trial."

Jason shook his head in disgust. "No. No, you're holding out. Like I said, Paulie and I won't touch Carolyn's inheritance,  
but what we do want is just a taste—just a _taste_ , mind you—of what you've really got tucked away."

Liz was confused. "What on Earth are you babbling about?"

"I told you it was no use, Jason," Paul finally spoke, still staring out the window at the dark sky.

Jason ignored him. "I am speaking, Madame, of the hidden Collins jewels."

Liz stared at him expressionlessly. Then she burst out laughing.

The sound was so sudden that Paul turned around, exchanging a mystified glance with Jason.

Liz spoke through her laughter. "Oh, my God. You are a ridiculous little troupe, aren't you? Here I thought Willie was the  
only one delusional on that front!"

At the mention of Willie, Jason straightened, on guard. "What do you mean about Willie?"

Liz wiped away a tear, still chuckling. "The sorry fool was absolutely _obsessed_ with that so-called treasure, and even tried  
finding that imaginary room in the Collins tomb a few months back! The idiot didn't find a thing, not a solitary thing."

Jason was speculative. "And that," he said practically to himself, "Was when he was hit by the DuPres woman in her  
car?"

"Yes," Liz said. "I believe it was that very night."

"What woman?" Paul asked, lost.

"I'll explain later," Jason said shortly. His eyes darkened as he continued thinking about his young friend.

Pulling herself together, Liz said firmly, "I assure you, my two halfwits, that there lurks no secret fortune hidden anywhere  
within the walls or out the walls of Collinwood. Do you really think if there was no one would have found it by now? I don't  
know what you want me to do."

 _"What we want,"_ Jason almost yelled, "Is what's coming to us. We want _money_. Or else _this-_ " he pointed at Paul—" _This_  
will all come out."

Liz's eyes floated to her husband's. "Have you no shame, Paul Stoddard, to go along with this charade so long? When  
will you learn that all money brings in the end is grief, total unending grief?"

Paul stared at her, and she was taken aback by the bottomless sadness in his eyes. "You have no idea how well I've  
learned that lesson, Liz. No idea."

"Never mind all that," Jason cut in testily. He fumed for a bit, pacing the room as he worked things out in his mind. Finally  
he said, "Very well, Miss Liz. Here's what we'll do. Paulie and I will have a little chat with our dear friend Mr. Loomis, and  
then we'll all three decide what our next course of action's going to be."

Liz snorted. "Good luck there. You'll be lucky getting anything halfway coherent out of the boy nowadays."  
"What do you mean?" Jason asked intently.

"This Josette," Liz said, "She's changed him somehow. He's…well, he's almost tolerable now. However, it's come at a  
price. He's timid to the extreme and jumps at his own shadow. He barely speaks outside of a frightened stammer. I don't  
know what it could have been. Josette's as gentle as a lamb. Maybe by being so nice she's shamed him, I don't know.  
But he's certainly not the man you left behind."

Jason ground his teeth. The more he heard about her, the less he liked about this Josette DuPres. _Little minx is_  
 _probably…._

He coughed. "Well, Liz, I'll give it a go anyways. Willie and I go way back, to when he was a mere stripling."

Liz raised her eyebrows, snorting again. "Yes, and your influence was quite evident in his behavior. Up until recently, it  
was getting to the point I didn't even want him alone with Carolyn."

Paul's head shot up, face serious. "What about Carolyn? What did he do?"

Liz glared at him. "Don't try playing the concerned father now, Paul," she said warningly. "You're about seventeen years  
too late."

Paul was adamant. "Yes, but if he's done anything"—

"Oh, shut up, Paul," Liz said carelessly. "You make me sick. I'm leaving now. Do what you wish about Willie, but  
remember this, Paul Stoddard: if you go anywhere near my baby, I will make you suffer." She turned around sharply and  
headed out, slamming the door behind her.

Jason swore as he kicked the chair. "Damn that Willie, _damn_ him!"

"Damn _you_ , you sneak," Paul hissed. "What's your big idea bringing her here? Why didn't you tell me, you bastard?"

"Because you'd never have agreed to it, Paulie," Jason said with a sarcastic smile. "This new virtuous outlook of yours is  
really putting a crimp in our plans."

" _Your_ plans, Jason," Paul said exhaustedly, sitting down woodenly on his bed. "And now your plans have ruined mine."

His eyes were glassy with regret. "Now that Liz thinks I'm only here because of the money, she'll never in a million years  
let me see Carolyn."

"Well, why do you want to see the girl, anyhow? Why the sudden change of heart?" He laughed harshly. "I remember  
when you used to call her the mewling baggage, the pint-sized horror, the"—

"Stop it, stop it!" Paul lashed out, throwing his cigar into the carpet. "I was younger then, younger and stupider and a total  
useless lout."

"And now?" Jason asked with quirked eyebrow.

"Now?" Paul chuckled self-deprecatingly. "Now I'm an _older and wiser_ total useless lout." His mood turned bleaker. "The  
only reason I came along with you was the chance to see Carolyn again. _You_ said you could fix that up for me."

"And I will, Paulie old boy, I will," Jason said breezily. "It will take a little finesse on my part, but have I ever let you down  
before? No, our real problem right now is Willie."

"Yeah, what about Willie? You look like you could kill him."

"I could, I really could. Do you know what that creep's done?"

"No, what?"

 _"He and that damn bitch he's shacking up with have their dirty little mitts all over the Collins family fortune."_

* * *

Carolyn was in distress, never having seen her mother act as tense and on-edge before, even during Jason's previous  
visits. Gone was the melancholy that would usually follow, but instead taut nerves and barely suppressed anger. To her  
daughter's pressing questions, Liz gave only short, noncommittal replies, never looking her in the eyes.

Carolyn could gladly claw at Jason's face till the blood came.

The following evening, she sat on the sofa in the drawing room. She flipped mindlessly though a magazine, her thoughts  
centered on whatever morbid, slick hold Jason had over her mother.

Everything pointed to blackmail, but what on earth would her kind, refined, proper mother be hiding that would warrant  
such measures?

She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she jumped at the knock on the front door.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she opened it, glad to see not Jason McGuire, but the serene, lovely face of Josette  
DuPres smiling back at her.

"Oh, hello, Josette! You can't imagine how glad I am to see _you_."

Josette's laughter, as always, was more delicate and musical even than the joyous tune of her music box. "You flatter  
me, Carolyn!" She entered, hanging up her knit shawl. "But was there someone else you were expecting? Someone you  
 _didn't_ want to see?"

"You can say that again," Carolyn said out the corner of her mouth, leading Josette into the drawing room. "Willie's told  
you Jason McGuire's back in town?"

Josette nodded, sitting down gracefully beside Carolyn on the sofa. "Yes, though I haven't had the dubious pleasure of  
introducing myself to the man yet. He's meeting with Willie right now in town." She peered knowingly at Carolyn. "This  
man's presence distresses you much, doesn't it?"

Carolyn nodded briskly, arms crossed, biting her tongue as she glared straight in front of her.

Josette sighed. "Yes, Willie seemed disturbed, too. I certainly don't mean to pry," she said delicately, placing a light hand  
on Carolyn's arm, "But is there anything I can do? Anything you'd like to…oh, what is the English expression… 'Get off  
your chest?'"

Carolyn shook her head. "No. Thank you, but what I need right now is a distraction. If I think anymore about that… _man_ I'll  
go crazy." She blinked, and smiled at Josette. "So let's change the subject, shall we? How goes everything at the Old  
House?"

"Oh, about as well as to be expected," Josette said distractedly. "Of course, because Barnabas took off today with young  
David for a weekend in Boston, I don't have his expertise to aid me at the moment." Her voice trailed off as her large sad  
eyes grew dewy with regret.

A new, mischievous light leapt into Carolyn's. "You don't have his fine company to distract you, either."  
Josette stared at her with such frank intensity Carolyn was a little taken aback. "I have grown quite fond of him." Her soft  
voice was at odds with her searing expression.

Carolyn dismissed the momentary discomfort she felt at Josette's eerie vehemence. "Good! I think you two have a lot in  
common. Have you guys…said anything to each other?"

Josette was careful to keep her face composed. "Well, yes and no. Nothing official. You see, Carolyn," her eyelids  
fluttered, "I…I don't have much experience with men. Or with the world around me. Growing…growing up as I did." Her  
eyes were tenderly appealing. "Won't you _please_ help me? That's why I've come over tonight. You're always so beautiful  
and vivacious, and always dressed so…so…." She swallowed her expression of disapproval as she took in Carolyn's  
miniskirt and boots, "So _fashionably_. Why, I feel so dowdy in comparison."

Carolyn laughed, touched. "Oh, Josette! You're the last person I'd describe as dowdy. Sure, you dress a little old-fashioned,  
but Barnabas is an old-fashioned guy."

"True," Josette said dreamily. "And that is one of many reasons I am so drawn to him. But even beyond Barnabas, there  
is a whole world I am unfamiliar with, which I long to take part in, to belong in." Her little grin was sprightly and charming.

"Won't you be my teacher, like Barnabas is for David?"

Carolyn laughed again. Then she punched Josette playfully in the arm and stood. "All right, kiddo. Your first lesson starts  
now. I'm getting you off these grounds and into the wild nightlife Collinsport has to offer!"

Obediently following her new instructor out the door, Josette revealed no hint of her true ambition. Since her last  
encounter with Barnabas that had incited the strongest surge of bloodlust she had yet experienced in the 20th Century,  
animal blood left her unsatisfied. She needed to gain a better understanding of modern-day Collinsport, of the people  
who inhabited the town—and which were the most disposable.

* * *

The Blue Whale was crowded as usual that Friday night, perhaps a bit more dilapidated than Paul remembered, but still  
bustling with activity and playing cheesy musack on the radio perched precariously on the counter.  
Sequestered as he was in a corner table with Jason, Paul was relieved no one he recognized from years earlier was  
there.

"Your boy's late," Paul said, glancing at his watch.

"At least that hasn't changed," Jason muttered, taking a sip of beer.

Paul drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. He didn't know Willie as well as Jason did. Willie had come after Paul  
and Jason had practically lost touch, almost ten years ago. Since then, Paul's stocks had risen and girlfriends had  
multiplied, but a dark, incipient depression hounded him as he aged.  
This visit was his last effort to lift it. But first he had to go and make a boneheaded move like getting in touch with Jason -

"Ah! There's our young laddybuck!" Jason called out as Willie entered.

The Irishman scowled as he took in Willie's appearance. The boy had been a cocksure son-of-a-bitch from the  
beginning, the frightening steak of rebellion in him often leading Jason into more trouble than he intended—yet there  
was no denying the boy came in handy if the price was right.

But this trembling, nervous object with his hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets, eyes shifting this way and that, timid  
as a mouse?

 _Good lord, first Paul goes soft, and now Willie?_

"H-hiya, Jason," Willie said, pulling out a seat. He was surprised to see Paul. "M-Mr. Stoddard? I, I thought you was  
hiding out."

Paul stared gloomily at his glass of brandy. "Things change, my boy."

Willie nodded slowly, eyes glassy. "Yeah. Yeah, they do."

Jason cleared his throat loudly. "Hate to interrupt your lonely heart's club meeting, gentlemen, but I have a few questions  
for you, Willie."

The younger man sighed as he anticipated what was coming. "Yeah?" He asked as he fished around in his shirt-pocket  
for his cigarettes.

Jason spoke in a detached but insinuating voice, a tone he always assumed in business matters. "Paulie here doesn't  
quite know the score yet, Willie, so pardon if I go over certain details which you should be well aware of. Y'see, Paulie,  
once I noticed the money I received from Elizabeth start to dwindle, I got the bright idea of leaving behind a pair of eyes  
and ears to…how shall I say… _pick up on anything I missed_ at Collinwood."

Paul frowned. "Don't quite get that, Jason. What do you mean, 'anything you missed'?"

"Why, the fortune, of course!" Jason announced, acting as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "During my many  
visits to Collinsport, I'd heard so much tell about the diamonds, rubies, and various valuable knick-knacks tucked away  
somewhere on the estate I knew there must be some fact to it. And that's where our dear acquaintance Willie came in."

He slapped Willie on the back, making him flinch.

Despite Jason's easy manner thus far, his eyes grew sterner, grin tighter at the corners. "Your job, if you remember,  
Willie, was to sniff around the joint, feel out any possible hideaways and keep me updated. How proud I was of your  
sleuthing skills, Willie, when you called me and told me all about the map you found to the secret room behind the  
Collins tomb." His eyes were blazing now. "But oh, how _concerned_ I was when lo and behold almost two months gone  
by without a single word about the results."

"There weren't nothing there," Willie said quickly.

"You're lyin', Willie," Jason practically hissed.

Willie's trembling got worse, as he fidgeted with his lighter. "Naw, naw, I ain't lyin. Honest, I checked it out and"—

"And _what?_ " Jason demanded. "If that was the case, why didn't you call me back and let me know?"

Willie fumbled for a response. "Well, see, I was afraid you'd get mad"—

 _"Hah!"_ Jason's disbelieving exclamation made the already unstable Willie jump in his seat. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,  
Willie. You, scared of me? Of my temper? You? You who never laughed harder in your life than when I'd try to scold you,  
try to keep you in line? You honestly expect me to believe that you've become this mild-mannered?"

"I-I-I ain't been well lately," his hand shook so much he could barely hold the cigarette to his lips.

Paul noted the dark circles under his eyes and his pale complexion and couldn't help but agree. What was it, drugs? Or  
had he really been in an accident?

Jason was having none of it. "Aw, you've not been well, have ya?" He asked in a syrupy voice. "Poor lad. It must be tough  
looking after Miss DuPres's affairs."

Willie bowed his head at the mention of her name.

"No, Willie. No, I know the truth well now. You found the fortune, and you also found Miss DuPres. Either she's a real  
stunner and you figured the only way to get a piece of her was to pay the price, or she knew what you'd done and  
blackmailed you into splitting it even with her. Or possibly both."

"No, no!" Willie cut in emphatically.

"That's it, all right!" Jason's face was red with the rage he was just barely keeping in check in the crowded tavern. "You  
can't convince me otherwise! Why else would you suddenly start working for her, her you barely know?"

"No, no, I got to know her real well! I did!" Willie said in a breaking voice. "When, when she hit me with that car! She treats  
me a lot better than they did in Collinwood, so what was I supposed to do? Honest!"

"Oh, save it for Sunday School, Loomis," Jason said in disgust. "You're talking to Jason McGuire here. I know your worst  
traits and your best traits, and even at your best, there's not a chance in Hell you'd help a little girl straight out of a convent  
just from the pure goodness of your heart."

"She…she's got a large inheritance," Willie shrugged, not meeting either men's eyes.

"And I'm sure she's supplementing it plenty right now with—oh, great," Jason suddenly grumbled. He stared peevishly at  
the door.

Paul turned and saw two beautiful young women enter.

They certainly turned more heads in the bar then just the three at the table—possibly because outside of their lovely  
looks, they also complemented each other in their differences.

The one on the right was dressed rather quietly and plainly, though that added rather than detracted from the ethereal  
light seeming to glow around her. Her expression was sweet and placid, but something about her eyes put off Paul.  
There was a light in them, queerly animal in their large depths, peering out of the calm face with a predator's detached  
hunger.

The girl on the left held Paul's attention more. Unlike her companion, this girl was lively, animated, and dressed far more  
chicly. She grinned widely at the barkeep, apparently familiar with the environs and the people around her. Whereas the  
girl with the disturbing eyes seemed to have stepped out from another time and possibly another solar system, this girl  
was very much of her time, and seemingly determined to enjoy and seize every moment of it.

An attitude Paul instinctively appreciated.

"Tonight of all nights!" Jason's addressed the heavens, eyes up. He leaned across the table toward Paul. "All right, listen  
up, Paulie. If the blonde on the left that just came in sees us, she'll probably make a scene, and you will definitely want to  
stay as unnoticeable as you can."

Paul's heart thumped in his chest. "You mean…."

"Yes," Jason said wryly, "That one's your own precious Carolyn." He grabbed his arm, hissing, "Don't stare at her, you  
fool! That's the surest way to grab her attention!"

Paul ignored him. He stared. Stared at this open, laughing girl, already flirting with a youth sitting at the bar. How different  
this vivacious, friendly picture was than the dark dreariness Paul associated with Collinwood, and with his current life on  
the run.

The father smiled dreamily. He had been right in coming back, in seeking her out.

Meanwhile, Jason's attention was riveted to Willie. Jason snickered darkly. "Going by the expression on your face, Willie  
m'boy, I'm willing to bet the Collins fortune that the dame next to Carolyn is your mysterious Josette."

Willie had indeed gone white and wide-eyed as Josette entered, for more reasons than Jason could conceivably  
imagine. He whipped around, whispering hurriedly, "Listen, we should get outta here."

It was too late. "Well, well, well," Carolyn said as she sauntered over, eyes glued on Jason, Josette following quietly.  
"Can't even get away from you one night, Jason." She put her hand on the back of his chair, leaning cheekily forward.

Paul and Willie's breaths caught collectively in their throats.

"How do you do, Carolyn?" Jason smiled, matching her faux-friendly tone. "Merry little coincidence, isn't it?"

"Yes, isn't it?" She wrinkled her nose, smile arch and challenging. She ran her eyes over his companions at the table.  
"Hi, Willie," she said carelessly. Her eyes rested on Paul.

She was a little confused by the soft, melting gleam in his eye, but decided to ignore it. "And this nice man is…?"

Jason straightened in his seat, stammering for an answer. "Oh, ah, this gentleman is…this gentleman is a _Mr. Strack_  
from California."

The man stood slowly, gently shaking Carolyn's hand. "How do you do?" He asked through the frog in his throat.

He was pained by the harsh, discerning look on Carolyn's face. "How do you do," she asked shortly.

She was obviously sizing him up as a friend of Jason's. Panicking, Paul hurried to dispel the impression.

"I, I actually don't know Mr. McGuire very well. I'm just staying in town for a while on business, and happened to run into  
him. I…I was stationed in Ireland during the War. We met just briefly, but he recognized me when I walked in."

Something about the naked appeal in his face softened Carolyn's outlook toward him. His eagerness showed he caught  
on to the fact Jason was a creep, and didn't want to be associated with him. Poor guy.

"Jason certainly gets around, doesn't he?" She asked conspiratorially.

"Yes," Paul laughed in relief. _She's more open than I had any right to expect. Good. Good._

Jason and Josette, meanwhile, were engaging in a sizing-up match of their own, his snake eyes and her wolf eyes  
locked in unspoken battle.

At last Josette smiled prettily, resting a light hand on Willie's shoulder, her servant staring determinedly at the center of  
the table.

"Willie," she said, and everyone at the table was immediately taken in despite themselves by the dulcet tones that cut  
clearly through the clamor around them. "Willie, I do believe this is the Mr. McGuire you spoke of. Won't you introduce  
us?"

Jason didn't give his friend any chance to respond, standing and extending his hand. "No need, Miss. I knew who you  
were the moment you walked in the door. Miss Josette DuPres, is it not?"

"It is," she mewed, slipping her hand lightly into his. "I've heard so much about you."

"Good things, I hope!"

Her eyes widened. "What else is there?"

He guffawed. "My, you must have reformed Willie indeed if he's taken to protecting _my_ reputation! But if he insists on  
painting me as the gentleman, I might as well play the part. Here, Paul, help me get a couple chairs for the ladies"—

"Never mind, Jason," Carolyn snapped. "Josette and I have to run."

"But you've just got here," Paul blurted out, desperate for her to stay.

She smiled pityingly at him. He obviously wanted a way out of sitting there alone with Jason and Willie. "I'm sorry, Mr.  
Strack. The Blue Whale doesn't have room enough for Jason McGuire and me. Here's some free advice for you," she  
jerked her head at Jason. "Let him pay for the drink and then get the hell away from him." She flipped her beautiful hair  
and then stalked away with head held high.

She was feisty. Perceptive. No man's fool.

Paul swelled with pride.

Josette locked eyes again with Jason. "I better catch up to her. I do hope we meet again, gentlemen."

Jason slanted toward her, whispering venomously in her ear, "Oh, you can count on it, Miss DuPres. Be expecting me to  
drop by real soon."

She leaned away, face remaining serene as they both studied each other closely one last time.

Jason had her figured out now. She was pure Trouble, with a capital T. Played the innocent act to the hilt, but she  
obviously hungered for something not quite right, and Jason knew, just _knew_ it involved pretty little gems.

Josette stared at his thick throat, feeling lucky to have found something disposable so soon.

"I'll see you at home, Willie," she said at last, voice familiar and sweet, icy glare still on Jason.

Then she turned and walked slowly and delicately toward the exit.

"Willie," Jason said silkily through clenched teeth, watching her leave. "We _really_ need to have a serious chat."

* * *

 **A/N: "Exposition, exposition," Jason said, snake grin plastered on his face. "Exposition, exposition, backstory,**  
 **exposition." Heh, sorry about all that. But Jason's a fun narrator, right? Someone's got to fill in certain facts. I**  
 **promise, the next chapter should be far more action-jackson for you patient readers. I thought about adding said**  
 **action to this chapter, but then it would have been, well, a helluva lot longer than it is even now.**  
 **Yup, this story has Jason McGuire AND Paul Stoddard in it: a Dennis Patrick combo meal! I just love that guy, what**  
 **can I say?**


	5. Chapter 5

The following Monday evening found Roger ready with the family car at the Collinsport train station, picking up Barnabas  
and the unusually talkative David after their trip to Boston. The youngest Collins was far more bright-eyed and healthylooking  
than his father had seen him in years, the boy aiming the majority of his conversation to his lenient tutor during  
the ride home.

Underneath Roger's aloof, careless reserve, he felt faintly hurt that his own son was more at ease with his distant cousin  
than his own father. But Roger had learned over the past five years to keep at bay any unnecessary emotions.

Unfortunately, David and the boy's eccentricities were quickly falling under that category.

Therefore, it was a pleasant enough journey back to Collinwood for Roger and his passengers. David only caused a  
minor fuss when Barnabas casually mentioned that he expected an essay by Friday on their tour of the Museum of  
Science.

Ignoring David's groans and mutterings, Barnabas stared pensively out the window at the dark trees rolling by. He had  
hoped the long weekend in Boston would have given him a fresh perspective on his relationship with Josette, and of her  
abrupt, jumpy behavior the night before he left. He had hoped, at least, that the distance would quell a little his feverish  
yearning for her.

All of these hopes had been dashed. If anything, his yearning was intensified. That damn proverb about absence proved  
true every once in a while.

 _Still, at least David and I are growing closer,_ he thought glancing fondly at his pupil, whose recent tantrum was already  
dismissed from his young mind as he immersed himself in the dinosaur figurines Barnabas had purchased for him.  
Barnabas's efforts to convince Roger and Elizabeth of David's need for psychoanalysis had resulted only in curt  
reminders that the Englishman should stick to his tutoring from Roger and a quieter but nonetheless still decided  
refusal from Liz. So, he'd resolved to make the best of it, and treat David as he would any other boy.

Along with the enlightening trips to museums and day hikes, Barnabas had made sure to fit in more leisurely activities  
such as a ball game (though the bookish, Oxford-bred Barnabas found any sport other than rowing rather dull and  
monotonous). Given David's effusive stream of talk and sunburned cheeks, Barnabas believed he had been successful  
in his assumption that the boy needed everyday stimulation outside of Collinwood's walls, where dwelt the imaginary  
ghost of Stefan and the terrifying memory of a dead mother.

"Home sweet home," Roger announced wryly, turning off the car's ignition as he parked in the house's sprawling  
driveway. There Collinwood stood, as grave and forbidding and delightful as ever from Barnabas's viewpoint. David  
sprang out, followed by the two men. The adults talked over business at the cannery and the merits of the Collinsport  
train service as David burst through the door, ringing out with a defiant, "We're home!"

All words halted on Barnabas's tongue as he entered Collinwood and saw Josette standing by the stairway, quietly but  
intensely observing him as Carolyn greeted her young cousin.

No, his desire had not decreased at all.

"Welcome back, Barnabas," Josette purred over David's uninterrupted patter to his cousin. Barnabas could only manage  
one small acknowledging nod.

Roger abandoned the homecoming scene with some relief, going to answer the phone in the drawing room. "Kitten, call  
for you. A man. Says it's 'private'." He frowned in mock disapproval.

"Ooh la la," Carolyn said deprecatingly, expecting the caller to be either Buzz or Joe, boys she cared for in an off-hand  
manner, but in the cruel light of day she couldn't help but find a little dull.

But for an evening….

She shooed out the relenting Roger, closing the doors behind him.

"All right, all right," Roger said carelessly out of the corner of his mouth. "I can tell when the man of the house isn't  
wanted. Goodnight, Josette. Welcome back, Barnabas." He stopped awkwardly in front of David. He patted the boy's  
head with a tentative quick hand. "Er, um, glad to have you back, young man."

He turned and marched quickly up the stairs, narrowly missing those bottomless eyes staring back at him, always  
vaguely accusing.

Barnabas, meanwhile, had not yet taken his eyes off Josette, her hand light on the railing she stood by.

He cleared his throat. "David, old man, time for you to follow your pater's example and amble off to beddy-bye."

David studied Josette suspiciously from under hooded eyes. "I'm not tired," he insisted glumly.

"No argument, Mister," Barnabas steered him gently toward the staircase, still following with his gaze the quiet figure  
watching him with equaled consistency.

Struggling with his conflicting desire to stay and his desire not to upset Barnabas, whom he was idolizing more and  
more by the day, David at last acquiesced and with slow, measured steps disappeared upstairs.

The air grew thick as the man and woman remaining breathed in each other's presence.

"Well," Barnabas began, at a loss. Now he looked away, studying his loafers.

Josette stepped forward before he could continue. " _Cher ami_ ," she said in a rapid, strained whisper, her eyes melting  
reverently at the sight of his downcast face. "I've been tortured with the thought you might believe me…flighty or eccentric  
judging by our last meeting. You know, the way I disappeared so suddenly I…I'm so mortified by my behavior." Twisting  
her fingers together nervously, she turned away from him toward the Grandfather clock, glancing down at her own  
slippers. "I simply don't fit in here, I suppose."

Any uncertainty he might have entertained about her vanished at the sound of her plaintive voice. So deeply was he  
enamored he forgot all his reservations instantly.

The hand he placed on her arm was soft but firm. "Josette, if you fit in anywhere, it's here. With me." He turned her  
around so that once again he could get lost in those fathomless eyes. This time there would be no disorientation, no  
fear or loss of control.

When she spoke, it was with the voice of a weeping woman, but she showed no trace of tears. "I just…I don't know how  
to…I've been alone _so long_ …."

He stopped her at once with a reassuring, fierce kiss.

* * *

After closing the doors in the drawing room, Carolyn cradled the phone in her shoulder as she inspected her nails.

"Hello?"

A vaguely familiar voice answered, with a tone of suppressed anxiety. "Miss Stoddard?"

He had Carolyn's attention. No boy she knew called her by that particular formality. "Yes. Who is this?"

"I…you might remember me from a few days ago at the Blue Whale? I'm Mr. Strack."

"Mr. Strack…Mr. Str…oh, yes!" Carolyn remembered. "I recall you quite well, you poor bastard. You obviously weren't keen  
on sitting there with Ireland's biggest folly, Jason McGuire."

He chuckled, his nervous anxiety lessened by the tiniest fraction. "Yes, that's me, all right."

Carolyn frowned. "But what can I do for you, Mr. Strack? I thought you were only here on business."

The line was suddenly silent for a space. Carolyn was on the verge of asking if he was still there when he answered in a  
hushed voice. "I know I have no right asking this of you, Miss Stoddard, but I'd like the chance to talk to you in person, if I  
may."

She was immediately on edge. "Why should I?" She asked, wariness rising.

The sincere tone on the other end eased her mind somewhat. "Oh, please, Miss Stoddard! I mean you no disrespect, no  
harm. But what I have to say to you cannot possibly be said like this, not over the phone."

An idea suddenly caught hold of Carolyn. "Is this about Jason McGuire? Do you have something on him?" She clutched  
the phone cord, eyes wide and bright.

He was reluctant upon answering, as if he felt he was misleading her. "It does concern him in a minor way."

Carolyn tapped her foot agitatedly, looking this way and that, thinking. Finally she decided. "All right. I'll tell you what we'll  
do. I've got a good feeling about you, Mr. Strack, but it will take more than a good feeling alone for me to trust you. I'll meet  
with you, but not all by ourselves. I want to go somewhere with people, lots of people. Meet you at the Blue Whale again,  
say in about thirty minutes?"

The tension in his voice seemed to give way completely.

"That, Miss Stoddard, sounds perfect to me. Thank you."

* * *

In spite of Carolyn's precautions, the Blue Whale was mostly empty as usual for a Monday night. Only two salty old  
fishermen sat at the bar, the barkeep pretending to listen to their wild yarns as he mindlessly cleaned a glass.

Still, Carolyn felt reassured there was at least some semblance of Collinsport life there as she walked in and spotted Mr.  
Strack in the corner, sitting at the same table from before.

She observed him as she walked his way, to his eager beckoning. He was very good-looking for an older guy, obviously  
in great physical health, complexion ruddy and strong despite his gray hair. There was something about his features  
strangely familiar: the pointed end to his nose and chin, the determined but troubled—yet not unkind-set to his mouth.

He pulled out a chair for her.

As they settled in at the table, friendly, wistful warmth peered out of his eyes. "You look lovely, Miss Stoddard." His voice  
was respectful yet deeply affectionate. However, Carolyn got no impression he was laying on anything, putting any  
moves on her.

"Thank you," she said sincerely, no flirtation or sarcasm in her response. "But puh- _lease_ , stop calling me 'Miss  
Stoddard'. Ick, makes me feel like someone's spinster aunt. Carolyn."

She could have sworn his eyes had tears in them. "Carolyn," came the soft reply.

She coughed, suddenly confused by his solemn manner—though not uncomfortable. "So, Mr. Strack, tell me: what  
information do you have that couldn't possibly be said over the phone?" The bright gleam of eagerness returned to her  
eyes as she leaned forward. "What is it about Jason?"

His consternation was plain as he shifted in his seat. "Jason truly plays a minor role in my tale, Carolyn. There is…much  
I have to tell you. Things that perhaps I shouldn't tell you at all. But I can't take it anymore, no matter the fallout. Either way,  
it's the most difficult thing I've ever had to do in my sorry excuse for a life."

She was breathless, waiting. "Well, what is it?" She asked at last, patience never her strongpoint. "What's so difficult  
about it? I'm here, aren't I?"

His nod was slow and melancholy. "Yes, you're here. And that's the difficult thing." He took a deep breath, seeming to  
give in and dismiss his doubts. "You see, it's not every day a man has to introduce himself to his own daughter."

To keep herself from swaying out of her seat, Carolyn dug her nails into the table until her knuckles turned white.

"…What?"

His remote gaze met hers, warmth just humming beneath his placid front. "I am your father, Carolyn. Paul Stoddard."

Rage at this preposterous man shot through Carolyn, steadying her. Paul was amazed and impressed by the swift fire  
that leapt into her eyes. _"Liar,"_ she spat out. "How dare you. How _dare_ you. My father is dead." Her angered expression  
was terrible. She trembled, still fiery and choked up with violence.

"That is true. For going on seventeen years I have been dead, long dead."

Carolyn wanted so badly to detect any of Jason's trickery and smooth manipulation in this man, and was more enraged  
and frightened when she couldn't find any. "No. No. It _isn't_ true. It…it can't be. You've…you've cooked up some plan with  
Jason. Some plan to win me over, so I'll leave him alone." She stood so violently she almost knocked her chair over. "Well, it's not going to work! We're done here."

She jumped as Paul grabbed both her hands, pressing them earnestly. His face was naked with love. "Please, _please_ ,"  
he cajoled. "Just hear me out, that's all I ask! I don't deny I've been a rat, the most detestable rat there is! But I'm telling  
you the truth now. For God's sake, don't let the first time I've ever told the truth to anyone—or the only time it's really  
counted-be the only time the one person whose good opinion I want not believe me!"

Carolyn stared at him.

More quietly, he asked, "It can't do any harm just to listen to me, now can it?"

Fighting her common sense, which was dutifully telling her to do otherwise, Carolyn after a few moments sat back down,  
hesitation and distrust written in every line of her face. "You have five minutes. I'll listen. Then I'm out of here."

Paul stared at his cigar smoking in its ashtray. "Where do I begin, Carolyn," he started in a sad and tired voice. "Shall I  
tell you the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? How I was a cad who never loved your mother, never esteemed her?  
How I cruised into town with my good friend Jason McGuire, ready to take your mother for everything she had? How when  
you were born, I was frightened and repulsed—not by you, I've learned, but by myself and my inability to be any sort of  
father to you?"

"Stop it, stop it," Carolyn rasped, tears angrily fighting their way out of the corner of her red eyes.

He closed his own at the sight of her pain. "I must go on, Carolyn. I must. This is painful for me, too. No, I was not fit for a  
husband or a father. I yearned—or thought I yearned—for the open road, for more money than your mother allowed me. I  
felt henpecked and stifled. I refused to think about you, refused to consider you. I"—he stopped, flinching and squeezing  
his eyes shut, as if a violent pain wracked his body. "I…tried…stealing Collins money. Your money. Your inheritance  
money."

He released a shallow breath. Carolyn had nothing to say.

He continued. "Your mother caught Jason and me in the act. Your mother- your mother, Carolyn. I never saw a woman so  
deeply in love with her child as she was with you. She wouldn't have cared if I'd made off with the whole house, it never  
mattered to her. Except for you. She would have killed me if it had kept your inheritance safe." He took a shaky puff from  
his cigar. "She gave us an ultimatum: either we leave town and I fake my death, or she'd report us to the police." He  
chuckled darkly. "But Jason, Jason had his own ideas. He agreed to the plan, only saying that he and I deserved a cut of  
the money to keep our mouths shut, so you'd never have to hear about what a louse, what a no-good louse your father  
was." He shrugged, a movement contrasted to his sober expression. "She agreed."

"Then why," Carolyn burst out, "Why are you telling me this now? Did she miss a payment? Huh, is that it? And now  
you're calling her bluff by telling me?"

Paul was in a panic to persuade her otherwise. He clutched her by the wrist, eyes wide. "No, no! That isn't it at all! I  
haven't touched the money in years, haven't been in contact with Jason for years!"

"Why not?"

"Because," he ran an unsteady hand through his silver hair. "Because something just didn't feel right after a time. I  
moved out West to California. I started many lucrative enterprises—a casino here, a nightclub there, eventually moving  
on to Real Estate—but," he shook his head, suddenly far away. "But after about five or so years everything felt so hollow. I  
had money. I had friends. I had women. And I repeat, I had _money_ , which I'd always desired more than anything but  
never had. Yet none of it was enough."

Carolyn stared him down cruelly. "Aw, so you finally discovered that all the big bad man needed was his pwecious  
widdle girl, huh? Ain't that a nice Hollywood ending for the California big shot."

He smiled ruefully. "Yes, it does sound like a bad cliché, doesn't it? But my realization didn't happen overnight, Carolyn.  
I'd see men with their little girls and not feel a thing, not for years. No, I'll tell you what happened. It was about a year ago  
now." He leaned back in his chair, reminiscing. "I've slowed down with age, though I'm still in pretty damn fine health, in  
better condition than I deserve. But I have less patience now for the wheeling and dealing involved in my jet-setter life,  
and I had stormed out of an interminable board meeting, disgusted with the cheesy grins and greedy words spouted  
back-and-fourth by businessmen with greasy hair and ugly ties. I took a walk in a nearby park. I saw a man and a woman  
sitting on a bench," his countenance softened. "The man was about my age, the girl by his side much younger, about  
your age. They were well-dressed and affectionate, and I was on the verge of dismissing them as an affluent May-  
December couple—you see them all the time in that area.

"But I was taken aback by certain oddities in their behavior. The girl had her arm in his, no surprise, but she looked at  
him with regard more genuine than I expected, yet her voice was teasing and easy in its manner. The girl was certainly  
not the Hollywood beauty I envisioned as your typical trophy wife, either. Oh, she was pretty in her way, but average and  
down-to-earth, about the opposite of glamorous. And the old man stared at her with such reverential adoration under his  
jovial cover. There was—I can't properly describe it—but there was such a _companionable_ air between them that it  
almost brought tears to my eyes. I felt a pang of... _something_ inside me. Then I heard it: she rolled her eyes, laughing at  
some bad joke he had told, and said, 'Oh, _Dad_ '."

Paul laughed, though there were tears in his eyes. "I know, corny, corny. But," he fiercely struck his chest with his balled  
fist. "It got me. It got me. More than when I first left and saw toddlers with their young fathers. I walked back to my gaudy  
beach house, not caring that people saw me crying. That was what I had been missing. Not money, not glamour, not  
women and summer houses. It was the companionship, the warmth and closeness that can only come from living out  
one's life caring for another human being, a human being more precious than anyone else on Earth—your own child."  
He threw out his hands. "What else was I to do? I was suddenly obsessed with finding out about you, scared to death  
that I knew nothing about you—were you still at Collinwood, were you happy, were you healthy? Who were you? I gave up  
on everything else. I sold my businesses, which made me even more money. I'm a very wealthy man, not that I give a  
damn now. That was my smart move. My dumb move," he gritted his teeth, annoyed with himself. "My dumb move was  
getting in touch with Jason. I figured stupidly that if I had had such an epiphany, maybe there was hope he'd gentled over  
the years as well. I knew he'd been going to Collinwood periodically over the years, so I thought he'd be the best person  
to pump for information about you. His damn silver tongue," Paul swore. "He convinced me to come back here with him,  
that he'd smooth things over with your mother. Ha!" He shook his head. "He succeeded only in enraging her, making her  
feel deceived. I knew then that my only hope was to appeal to you directly." He turned hopefully to her.

Carolyn was stunned by his story, so stunned she couldn't properly work out her other emotions. At last dignity and a  
clear-cut sense of right and wrong returned. "It's not right to put me in this position. I don't like going behind my mother's  
back."

"I know, I know," he said sympathetically. "I hate doing this. But your mother threatened me if I ever went near you again. I  
couldn't do it with her knowledge, and I know I can't rely on Jason. I'm desperate, Carolyn."

The warm hand on hers unwillingly touched off some hurting place Carolyn didn't realize she had. Tears streaked down  
her cheeks. "You're really alive…." She whispered disbelievingly.

"I am," he whispered back. "And I'm here, Carolyn. One chance, darling. That's all I ask. One chance to get to know this  
remarkable young woman in front of me, a more beautiful, headstrong, just daughter than any skunk like me has any  
right to. Just one chance."

He stopped breathing as he watched her, as she stared at his hand on hers. He didn't press her. But the waiting was  
terrible.

Tentatively, as if she was afraid his hand would snap at her hand, she laid hers over his.

"One chance," she echoed him. Her proud chin so like her father's defiantly refused to tremble.

* * *

Willie was relieved as he saw that this time, Josette leaned against the great door of the Old House with a look of human  
dreaminess, not vulpine hunger.

"Hello, Willie," she said in a faraway voice.

"H-hiya, Josette. You-you look in a good mood."

"I am, Willie, I am," she agreed. She walked airily across the room, placing her chic new purse—a recent purchase from  
an outing with Carolyn—on the table by her armchair. She sat down easily, happily regarding Barnabas's portrait. "I know  
now for certain that my Barnabas is remembering our love, and is not going to fight it."

Eyes still on his portrait, she reached to the music box at her right and opened it, the music flowing forth.  
Willie shuffled awkwardly toward the fireplace, hands in his pockets. "You really think this Barnabas is the same guy,  
reincarnated or whatever?"

Josette inhaled sharply, willing herself not to lose her temper at Willie's nosiness and overly informal speech. "There is  
a connection the true Barnabas and I share, Willie, that cannot be forced through mere physical resemblance and  
wishful thinking." She ran her long, graceful fingers tenderly over the music box. "No, the two men are one and the  
same."

Willie steeled himself. "Yeah, but…what…what are you going to do about it?"

"What do you mean?" He flinched at the sudden metallic note just barely discernible in her voice, a note of warning.

"Well…well…what with you being the way you is, and him"—

He jumped as she snapped shut the music box. "I don't see how that is any of your concern, Willie."

"M-maybe not, but Josette, I, I just don't want you to hurt anyone."

She glared at him, and he shivered as the wolf gleam returned. "I would never hurt Barnabas. Not for the world." Her  
voice was deceptively quiet.

"Y-y-you know ya can't always control yourself," he rubbed his neck around the area where the telltale bumps were still  
barely visible. He shivered at the physical reminder of what could happen when Josette lost control.

She stood and began pacing in agitation. "Don't you think I know that, you fool? But I'm getting stronger, more  
accustomed to my powers, my surroundings. Thanks in large part to my beloved's cousin, Carolyn."

Willie's head snapped up, staring at her wildly. "What about Carolyn?"

The corners of Josette's ripe mouth tucked upwards coquettishly, as she feigned shock at his demonstration of passion.  
"Why, Monsieur Loomis! Don't tell me you harbor a fondness for the fair young lady."

He lunged forward, fists shaking as he fought to keep a respectful, reluctant distance. "Just stay away from Carolyn."

Amused by his display of chivalry, Josette did not bother to scold him for his sharp tones and impertinence. "I have no  
designs on Carolyn, Willie. Your lady love is safe."

"Then what are you doing with her?"

She shrugged, pacing more leisurely now. "You can only do so much for me, Willie. If you and I are seen socializing,  
people are bound to take it the wrong way. So I've chosen Carolyn as my guide, navigating me around modern-day  
Collinsport. But never mind all that. The important thing is this helps keep me from harming Barnabas. I _will_ wait until he  
comes to me willingly."

Willie watched her with knitted brow. "What do you mean 'willingly'? And what do you mean about Carolyn keeping you  
from harming him?"

Josette's face darkened as her feline grin spread over her face. "Never mind, Willie darling," she said softly. Then she  
turned about sharply, pinning him with her probing glare. "But that reminds me: we haven't had time yet to chat frankly  
about your dear friend Mr. McGuire."

Willie swallowed. He'd been dreading this. "What-what about him?"

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Do not play me for a fool, Willie Loomis. I want to know everything you two talked  
about the other night, when Carolyn and I came upon you at that establishment."

Willie shook. "Just…just catchin' up on old times."

"Oh, I doubt it. Judging by the horrified look on your face when you saw me, and the malicious looks he gave me, I know  
that mercenary fellow is 'up to something', as our dear mutual acquaintance Miss Carolyn would say. And _I_ want to know  
what it is." She slithered nearer him, till they were about an inch apart.

All pretense of poetic gentleness had fled her, and Willie felt overwhelmed by the surge of power seemingly sucked into  
her lithe frame. He closed his eyes, remembering in agony—and with a terrible, tingling thrill—the prickly, searing  
sensation of her fangs sinking into his throat, her hands rubbing his forearms.

He huffed out his response. "N-n-nothin'. We didn't talk about nothin'."

He gasped as her hand closed in on his throat, lifting him off the ground with superhuman strength. With bulging eyes,  
he grasped at her hands that were tightening around his windpipe.

"Don't lie to me, Willie." Her voice was quiet, very quiet. "Tell me. _Tell me_."

"All right, all right," he choked out tearfully. "I'll tell ya, just please let me go."

She acquiesced. He rubbed his sore throat once more. "He…he knows you got the Collins fortune. He guessed it. He  
wanted me to let him in on it, else he'd go to the police. I kept denyin' it, but he wouldn't believe me! So I called his bluff,  
told him to get the police, but that just made him mad and he stormed out. I ain't seen him since."

Josette listened closely. "Anything else?"

"Naw, naw, I swear."

She ruminated for a bit. "I was right about him," she spoke at last.

"What d'you mean?"  
"He's the perfect choice."

"Perfect choice for what?"

Josette tapped her fingers together slyly. "The perfect choice to distract me from that awful hunger which overtakes me in  
Barnabas's presence."

Willie's eyes grew wide as dinner-plates as the meaning behind her words dawned on him. "Oh, Josette, you can't mean  
it?"

"Why not," she asked harshly. "He is the opposite in every way from Barnabas: corrupt, scheming, immoral, and a  
criminal wastrel. Would not the world—particularly Collinsport and the Collins family—be better off without such a  
serpent?"

"He-he's a human being, ain't he?" Willie asked desperately.

"Barely, I should think. Besides, what do you care? He's just as much a menace to you as he is to me. Threat of extortion  
sounds rather like a nuisance, doesn't it, regardless of follow-through?"

"We were friends once."

"Once, Willie. Once." Josette smoothed out the wrinkles in her skirt. "We are done discussing the matter, you and I." She  
peered at him from beneath her thick lashes. She was put off by the way he looked at her now, his expression sad,  
grave: almost censorial. "Well, what is it, Willie? What makes you so contemplative all of a sudden?"

"I was just thinkin'," Willie said sullenly.

"Oh? Well, do try not to hurt yourself, darling."

Later, Willie wondered where he found the audacious courage for his next words. "Just wonderin' what your brother  
Stefan would make of all this."

Josette stiffened, very still. "…What was that, Willie?"

"I heard it. Today."

"Head what?"

"Little David always said Stefan plays 'Frere Jacque' on his flute. And I heard him. Today in the basement."

She whipped around. "Did you see him?"

He shook his head. "Nuh-uh. I looked and looked, but didn't find no one."

"Well, then it was obviously in your imagination, or little David was playing a joke on you," she said brusquely.

"No. No," he said resolutely. "I could tell. And I bet he ain't thrilled you'd be planning to hurt anybody, even somebody like  
Jason. I bet Stefan"—

Josette struck him then, sending him flying against the wall, where he slid to the floor, stunned.

"Don't," she breathed heavily. "Don't you ever say my brother's name again." She loomed over his half-conscious form.  
"Do you hear me, you miserable little rat? I loved that boy more than my own life. And he loved me. His death," she  
placed her hand on her chest. "His death...you, worthless worm that you are, you cannot imagine the depth of my grief at  
the loss of that precious child. And if I ever hear you say his name, or even allude to him again, I will destroy you, make  
you suffer physically every pain I suffered emotionally at his death. Do you understand?"

He nodded weakly, eyes dazed as blood trickled out of his mouth.

"Good," she sneered. "Now go to the basement. It's time for us to make a fresh deposit."

At this same moment, a stealthy figure approached the outside bay window, hiding behind the shrubbery. He watched  
unseen as the upright figure of the woman pointed toward the basement door. Willie haltingly found his way to his feet,  
lurching unsteadily toward the basement door, blood blotting the lower corner of his face. He disappeared down the  
basement steps, closing the door behind him.

Josette waited, seemingly not even breathing, face composed yet severe.

Willie reappeared. The figure watching zeroed in immediately on the bulk Willie carried: jewels. Diamonds, rubies, gold  
nuggets, a pearl necklace.

The quiet, watchful figure smiled menacingly. Then he turned away from the window, adjusting his cap. Jason McGuire  
stalked off into the night, still unseen, satisfied in his suspicions.

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry I haven't updated in forever, but it looks like I'll be working stupid dumb overtime for awhile. So updates might**  
 **be kind of slow, though they'll be comin', I swear! I've got an outline and everything. An outline!**

 **I also apologize if you feel like I've failed to deliver on the action I promised in the last chapter. But the next chapter**  
 **should have it, according to that outline I just mentioned! Although now that the movie has its own category, I doubt**  
 **I'll be getting as much traffic here as I did before. Oh, well, c'est la vie! Glad the movie has its own section now, at**  
 **least. And I hope you fine folks sticking around to read my little tale will continue enjoying it! Thanks for the support,**  
 **all a' yous!**


	6. Chapter 6

Anxiety nagged Elizabeth like an unceasing headache.

A week had passed. A whole week without word of Jason, of Paul. What could this silence mean? What could it mean  
that Jason, so desperate as to risk her wrath by bringing Paul back to Collinwood as the ultimate threat of blackmail,  
was now nowhere to be found? Usually Jason staked out a room at Collinwood during his stays, insinuating himself into  
the family's life. And now, not a trace.

His absence could lead to nothing good.

And Paul.

What of Paul?

"Mother!" Her daughter's voice calling to her from the drawing room's doorway brought Elizabeth back to reality from the  
gray clouds she'd been watching mindlessly pass out the window.

Carolyn was dressed to go out, purse in hand. She watched her mother with carefully careless eyes, smile too bright  
and casual.

An unnamed fear churned in Elizabeth's chest.

She cleared her own face of any dubious expression. "What is it, dear?"

"I just wanted you to know I'm going into town for awhile. Going shopping."

Elizabeth frowned. "Shopping? Today's Monday. I thought you reserved your binges for Friday."

Though her smile remained as wide as ever, Carolyn's eyes wandered away from her mother's as she answered. "Well,  
you know me. I never can stick to any routine." She suddenly launched forward with girlish clumsiness and kissed her  
mother on the cheek. She rushed out the entryway's door, tossing a "Ta!" behind her back as she went.  
Liz studied the closed doors silently.

On top of everything, now she was worried about _Carolyn's_ behavior. Whenever Jason McGuire was in town, Carolyn had  
always acted too curious and outspoken for Liz's peace of mind, but now the girl appeared—appeared too much—like  
she hadn't a care in the world.

And the way she kissed her goodbye just now—almost as if she acted thus only so Liz wouldn't ask her any more  
questions.

Liz sank resignedly into the sofa. She sighed and closed her eyes, letting her head fall back.

What was everyone hiding from her?

* * *

"Oh, Dad, I just adore this scarf! But you really didn't have to…."

"Not another word," Paul interrupted as he opened the door for her, inviting her into his room at the Collinsport Inn. "You  
looked too pretty in it for me not to buy it."

The past week had been a tentatively ecstatic experience for the repentant father: ecstatic because every day he was  
growing closer to Carolyn, her high spirits and open affection filling him with a joy he had never experienced before;  
yet tentative because there was always the specter of Elizabeth hovering over them, always the threat they'd be seen  
together by someone who knew Paul, who would spread word to Collinwood. And Carolyn, of course, loathed keeping  
such a weighty secret from her mother.

Yet just as Paul was basking in his rediscovered fatherhood, Carolyn basked in being his daughter. He was a warm,  
funny man, with a sadness that touched Carolyn's heart and made her more tender to him than she was to anyone, save  
maybe her mother during Elizabeth's periodic depressive moods.

Carolyn plopped her shopping bags unceremoniously on the bed, playing with the gauzy aquamarine scarf tied loosely  
around her neck. "Wait till Josette sees the one I got her!"

Paul stiffened. "Oh, you got one for her too, eh?"

"Yeah. A lilac one. That seems to be her favorite color."

Her father was speculative. "You're, uh, you're rather friendly with that girl, aren't you?"

Carolyn nodded nonchalantly. "She's a sweetie-pie. Sheltered and shy, but a good kid."

"Hmm."

Carolyn cocked her eyebrow. "Just what are you 'hmm'-ing at?"

He scratched his mustache. "Well, I suppose I'm just a cynical old fart, really. She does hang around with Willie"—

"Yes, and he's a changed man now! She's done wonders for him."

"Has she? Do you really think a man can change so quickly?"

She smiled gently at him. "All it took for you was a father-daughter scene at a park," she reminded him not unkindly.

He gazed at her fondly, chuckling. "You really are an amazing girl, Carolyn. Always ready to see the good in everyone."

"I wasn't always like that," she said softly. "Until I met someone who changed my mind." She rushed into his embrace.  
"Oh, Dad! This has been such a marvelous week! You've convinced me beyond a doubt that you didn't come back for the  
money, but for me! I'm so happy."

"Oh, darlin'," he said as he cradled her to him. "You have no idea how much your happiness means to me. There's  
nothing I wouldn't"—

The phone rang.

"Oh, blast," he muttered. "Shall I just let it ring?"

Carolyn laughed. "Don't worry, I'm not going to disappear into thin air. Go on, answer it."

Disentangling himself from his daughter's hug, Paul answered. "Hello?"

"Paulie," rasped the voice on the other end.

Paul smothered the oath on his tongue, watching Carolyn carefully out of the corner of his eye. "Yes," he said in a muted  
voice.

"Been wonderin' where I've been, Paulie?" Jason asked teasingly.

"As a matter of fact, I haven't had time to think about it one way or the other."

An unpleasant snicker answered him. "No, I guess not. Not with all the time you've been spending with Carolyn."

Paul turned away from his daughter, relieved she was distracted humming to herself as she examined her other  
purchases, spreading them out on the bed. "How…."

"How do I know? You've not been real discreet, Paulie. I've heard talk from the gossiping townsfolk that Miss Stoddard's  
been seen going around with an older gentleman. I can put two and two together just as well as the next man, you  
know."

Paul made sure to keep his tone even, empty of emotion. "So what can I do for you?"

"You can meet me at The Blue Whale in fifteen minutes."

His jaw tightened. "I'm busy."

"Yes, so am I. Be there anyways." He hung up.

Paul closed his eyes, willing his face to lose its suddenly rage-induced redness.

He turned back to Carolyn after he collected himself. "I hate to do this, sweetheart, but I have to go."  
"Go?"

"I'm meeting someone at The Blue Whale."

"At the—oh, no," her face fell and her shoulders slumped.

"Now, it's not like that, Carolyn."

"But it is Jason, isn't it?"

Paul didn't answer.

Carolyn clutched his arm, addressing him appealingly. "Oh, Dad, don't go, don't! You know he'll only pull you into some  
scheme! I love you, but I can't stand by while you help him hurt Mother!"

"Don't worry, Carolyn." He pressed her hand reassuringly. "I won't do anything to hurt your mother. I'll meet with him, but  
only to tell him once and for all I'm through with him." He shook his head, angry with himself. "If only I hadn't been such a  
fool when I was younger." His expression gentled as he noted her troubled face. He kissed her on the forehead. "But  
don't worry, baby. I'm on the straight and narrow now."

* * *

"You've made me wait almost a whole hour, Paulie," Jason admonished lightly as Paul sauntered sullenly over to their  
usual table. The Irishman was leaning back casually in his chair. He pushed out with his foot an empty seat for his  
reluctant companion.

"Yes, well, you've been gone a week. You're not one to talk about keeping people waiting."

Jason laughed over his cigarette. "True, true."

Paul glared at him. "So what's the story, anyhow? You've had me in a state of suspense, not sure when you were going  
to pop up with some new scheme to make my life hell."

"Well, now that time has come. Took me awhile to come up with a decent plan, but here 'tis." Jason shot forward eagerly  
in his chair. "I was right. Right about the whole thing."

Paul was on guard. "Right about what? Willie and Josette?"

"Bingo." Jason smashed his cigarette into the ashtray, and then cracked his knuckles as he got down to the meat of the  
story. "I saw it. Saw it with my own eyes."

"Saw what, exactly?"

"The fortune! I was watching outside from the Old House's window several nights ago and saw Willie come up from the  
basement, arms loaded with the stuff—gold, jewels, almost the whole stinking lot."

Paul was almost breathless at this revelation. "Really?"

"Really. The basement's the place. The basement in the blasted Old House. That's where it lies. Gold, Paulie. Jewels."  
"Gold and jewels…." Paul said in a faraway voice. Jason gleefully spotted the old familiar gleam that popped into Paul's  
eager eyes, a gleam he hadn't seen in years. Greed.

Jason pressed the topic while it still held Paul in thrall. "You know what this means, don't ya, Paul? We've practically got it  
made."

Paul blinked and started, awakened from his daydream. "We?"

"Yes, we! I've got it all worked out." He shifted nearer Paul, excited. "I'll confront Willie and, well, beat him to a pulp if I have  
to, then I'll head downstairs and assess the loot. You stand guard outside. I'll come back up and give you the all-clear  
when I'm ready, then we'll cart the load outside"—

"No."

"What do you mean, no?" Jason asked incensed.

Paul's mouth was set in a hard, firm line. "I meant no. I'm not having any part of this."

"But why?" Jason asked desperately. "We did stuff like this all the time back in the day!"

"Yes, _back in the day_! For chrissake, Jason! We're not twenty years old anymore! Don't you think it's time we grew up and  
started acting like men?"

Slithering contempt seized Jason's features as he pointed at Paul. "Don't you lecture me like I'm an erring schoolboy,  
Paul Stoddard. We both started out in life with miserable lots, you and I, so who are either of us to judge the other?"

"But I keep telling you," Paul reiterated. "That was the past! We can't keep giving ourselves passes for the rest of our  
lives, just because we weren't given a good deck of cards in the beginning."

"Ha!" Jason laughed in his face. " 'In the beginning.' Oh, that's rich. Easy for you to say now, with the fortune you've  
amassed over the years from your own dirty enterprises. I'm certainly no virtuous union man meself, but I can still call  
bull on hypocrites like you. I don't have what you've got now. Besides," His thin smile blazed at Paul. "Besides, I saw your  
face when I mentioned the gold just now. I can recognize the old Paul Stoddard money-lust from miles away. You want  
in, don't deny it!"

"No," Paul shook his head emphatically. _Too emphatically,_ Jason told himself. _Man just needs a little extra push. Time to_  
 _bring out the big guns._

"Oh, what a shame, Paulie. And here I thought I wouldn't have to tell Liz anything."

Paul sharply turned his narrowed eyes to Jason's. "What?"

"That's right, Paulie," Jason said through his teeth. "Cards on the table. You don't see me through on this, I tell Liz  
everything about you and Carolyn. Then you'll never see your daughter again."

"You son-of-a"—  
Jason held out his hand, stopping Paul as the infuriated man lunged forward with his hand balled into a fist. "Now, now,  
Paul. Nothing personal, you understand."

"Just business?" Paul asked sarcastically through his own clenched teeth.

"That's right," Jason mugged, inclining his head.

Paul shook his in disbelief. "Good God, Jason. Does nothing, no one matter to you outside of money anymore?"

Jason's countenance darkened. "I once thought I had real friends that I could care about: you and Willie. Then _you_  
practically break off all contact with me, and _Willie_ tries to dupe me out of a profit. It's enough to make a man cynical, you  
have to admit." Something indefinable softened in his expression. "I don't relish cutting off Willie. I really was fond of that  
idiot once. Almost like the unkempt feral baby brother I never had. But he's asked for it! Nobody puts one over on Jason  
McGuire! Not even you, Paulie." He returned his focus to the man in front of him. "Well, what'll it be, Paul? Will you help  
me out, supplement Carolyn's inheritance—a good way to make up for once trying to make off with it, by the way—or risk  
the wrath of Liz?"

Hatred set in every feature of Paul's face. "All right," he answered at last in a voice sick with loathing. "I'll help you."

Jason relaxed again in his seat, charming grin wide on his satisfied face. He lit another cigarette. "Bartender!" He called  
over his shoulder. "Glass of beer for my pal! On me, of course."

* * *

The following day was another rare sunny one. Barnabas and David made their way through the tall grass lining their  
path, books and a picnic basket in tow.

"Gettysburg Address?"

"November 19, 1863. _Please_ can I do swimming?"

"No. Emancipation Proclamation?"

"January…uh…oh, duh! January 1, 1863. C'mon! I won't go far!"

"No. Well, we'll see. Battle of"—

"Hey, teach! Hey, squirt!" Carolyn interrupted, joining them from the forest's path. She wore her new scarf, which served  
as a lovely decoration to her matching blouse and skirt even if it was superfluous in the current weather. "Taking  
advantage of the sunny weather to slack off, huh?"

"Not at all," Barnabas responded. "It's a lovely opportunity for a walking pop quiz. For example," he addressed David.  
"First Battles of the Ironclads?"

"Um…um…." The reluctant boy's eyes darted about as he scrambled to remember. Then he brightened. "Oh! March…  
March 8, 1862!"

"Splendid!" Barnabas tussled his hair.

Carolyn grimaced. "Yeesh, glad you never worked at Collinsport High when I went there. Mind if I join you?" She asked,  
observing their picnic basket.

"It would be our pleasure."

They marched lazily down the path for a few minutes, taking in the sun that would soon be descending into a balmy  
sunset.

"I do love watching the horizon fade to dusk," Barnabas said dreamily.

"Sap," Carolyn joked. Then she halted.

Barnabas and David glanced at her questioningly.

Her face was white and still. They followed the direction of her icy gaze.

Two men across the field were making their way toward the path leading to the Old House, not noticing the three  
members of their current audience. Their features were just barely discernible. The apparent leader in the long beige  
trench coat had black hair under a newsboy cap; the other was gray-haired, mustachioed, with a cross, brooding  
expression on his face.

Barnabas was just about to ask Carolyn if she knew the gentlemen when David piped up. "Hey! Don't I know that dark-haired  
guy?"

"No," Carolyn said quickly. Her eyes slit. "If you'll excuse me, I've suddenly lost my appetite."

She turned on her heel and sped purposefully away, soon disappearing through the grass and trees.

"She sure can get moody, huh?" David shrugged.

Barnabas raised an eyebrow. "Hm," he said noncommittally, though he couldn't help but agree. "Welp, nothing for it." He  
glanced down wryly at his charge. "Do you really want to go swimming? It's not all that long before dark, you know."

David eagerly confirmed his desire. "Yeah! C'mon, I won't go too far, I swear!" He practically jumped up and down. "I'm  
wearing my swim trunks under my shorts and everything! _Please!_ "

"All right, look," Barnabas said, half-relenting. "I'll climb down and see how the tide looks. Why don't you set up the picnic  
basket while I go?"

David beamed fawningly at him.

Rolling his eyes and stifling his own grin, Barnabas left David with the basket and walked carefully down the rocky climb  
to the beach.

After investigating a nearby anthill for ten minutes, David at last dutifully set down the basket, but sprung back as a pair of  
small black shoes and stockings appeared beside it.

He gasped as he stood upright and took in the boy in front of him. "Stefan!" David exclaimed happily. "It's been forever  
since I've seen you!" He frowned. "What's wrong?"

The boy stared at him with large, woeful eyes. "David, go and fetch Barnabas and bring him back here. Something's  
about to happen at this very spot. Something terrible. You both need to be here."

David's eyes widened. "What's going to happen?" He asked warily.

"Please, David!" Stefan entreated, already fading away. "Hurry!"

* * *

"All right," Jason whispered to Paul after they reached the clearing in front of the Old House. He pointed to the large bay  
window on the right side. "Stake out a spot there. The DuPres woman is never around during the day, as she goes into  
Bangor on some sort of business concerning her inheritance, apparently. Willie will be easy to get by. If I need you, I'll let  
you know. Got it?"

Paul stared ahead glumly, eyes unreadable.

 _"Got it?"_

Paul nodded tiredly. "Yes, Jason. I've got it."

Smirking nastily, Jason slapped Paul on the back. "That sour attitude of yours will clear up once you see the loot in store  
for you." He winked. "Keep an eye out."

He hurried to the front doors, flanked by colonial columns. Paul wearily took off to the right.

Neither of them saw Carolyn spying on them from the other side of the yard, studying their movements closely. Watching  
her father cross to the right, she ducked off toward the window at the left, remaining unseen.

Winding down for the day, Willie busied himself moving the ottoman closer to the armchair when he heard a knock at the  
door. Assuming the caller was Barnabas, Willie ran quickly through all the excuses he could make for Josette's  
absence. As he crossed to the door, he noted the time on the grandfather clock and frowned. This was a little bit earlier  
than Barnabas's usual visits. Why would he—

Willie swallowed uncomfortably when he opened the door to a stone-faced Jason.

"J-Jason? I, I wasn't expectin'"—

He stumbled as Jason pushed him out of the way and strode into the drawing room. "I know you weren't, Willie," he  
muttered, taking in the impressive space with its plush velvet curtains, Parisian throw rugs, and shining candelabras.  
"What a quaint little set-up you have here, Willie," he said bitterly. "Never knew you had a touch of the back-breaking  
laborer in you. Then again," he regarded the handyman with steely eyes. "You have quite the motivation now, haven't  
you?"

Willie shook his head. "I, I don't know what you"—

He gasped as Jason grabbed him by his shirt collar, giving him a good shake. "All right, you sniveling little worm, game  
over. I know everything now."

Willie sputtered indignantly. "Just what do you think you know?"

Jason pushed him away and pointed at the window—careful it wasn't the window Paul was posted outside of. "I saw.  
Saw everything from out there."

Willie's eyes widened. "Saw? Saw what?"

"It was about a week from today. I stood outside behind those bushes, and saw everything that went down between you  
and that dame."

Willie reached back for the wall to support himself, his face white and beaded with cold sweat. "Ev-everything?" He  
asked weakly.

"Yeah, everything." Jason laughed harshly. "I saw you with your mouth bleeding from where she must have cold-cocked  
you. What a miserable little sight you were, you pussy-whipped"—

"Is that all you saw?" Willie asked quickly. Were Jason's mind less focused on the treasure, he would have noted the  
absence of injured pride in Willie's voice after Jason's emasculating insult.

"No, Willie, that is not everything I saw." He lunged forward, reminding Willie of when Josette would corner him, allowing  
practically no air between them. "What I saw next confirmed all my suspicions." Never taking his accusing eyes away  
from Willie, Jason pointed to the door leading to the basement. _"I saw you come out of there with trinkets from the Collins_  
 _fortune in your arms."_

"Oh, God," Willie groaned.

"You lying, stinking thief," Jason's words were eerily quiet. "I've found you out now. No need to deny it."

Willie brought his hands together, almost supplicating. "Please, Jason, you don't understand"—

"I'm going down to that basement, Willie."

Willie pivoted his head quickly toward the window, toward what he could see of the horizon. The sun was rapidly  
descending. Very little time now.

"No, you can't do that!"

Another sinister chuckle. "Can't I?" He stomped toward the door.

Willie grabbed his arm fiercely, holding him back. Willie's face was mad with panic. "No! Jason, no!"

Jason whirled around and punched Willie with all the strength Jason had stored up from his bitterness and sense of  
betrayal. Willie wavered dumbly on his feet for a brief moment before collapsing flat on his back, stunned.

The merest hint of regret flickered in Jason's eyes as he took in Willie's unconscious form. Then that gleam hardened.  
 _Business. That's all it was. Business._

He disappeared through the basement door.

* * *

Carolyn's quick eyes saw everything. She could barely hear what the two inside were saying, something about the family  
fortune? The basement?

She flinched as Jason took out Willie with a swift stroke.

Then her blood boiled as Jason headed down the basement steps, after what rightly belonged to her and her own.  
Driven by her temper, Carolyn marched purposefully to the door, flung it open, and entered. She stepped over Willie,  
following Jason's trail.

* * *

On the other side of the house, Paul watched the scene between Jason and Willie with far less shock and outright fury  
than his daughter. Instead he felt only a steadily rising contempt, not just at the avaricious Jason and seemingly weak-willed  
Willie, but also at himself.

He should just leave. Leave now. Carolyn was probably better off without him. Jason would never leave them alone,  
never. There was no shaking Paul's past.

Yet all that money—

Paul closed his eyes as Jason punched Willie; not at Jason's violence, but at the resurgence of his own smothered greed  
come back to haunt him. Yes, it would be better for all involved if he were to leave, to exit before past temptations  
returned to wreak havoc on his life all over again.

He was still arguing this point with himself when he saw a blonde and aquamarine blur speed through the drawing  
room, trailing Jason down the basement steps.

The two colors added together to equal one person.

" _Carolyn!_ " Paul hissed. He looked around anxiously. _Oh, God. Oh, God. Please, please, don't let her get involved. Don't_  
 _let Jason get near her!_

But what was the father to do?

There must be another way of seeing what was going on without revealing to her he was there, too….

He hurried toward the end of the house where he approximated the basement was. He pulled away some weeds and  
overgrown shrubbery covering that corner and was quietly triumphant when he saw the blackened but still functional  
basement windows.

He fell quickly to his knees, then on to his stomach, peering past the dust and cobwebs, straining to see what was going  
on in the dungeon-like space.

He could make out a figure. He wiped away at some of the dust and got a clearer view: Jason. No sign of Carolyn. Paul  
figured she must be hiding on the stairs, spying on McGuire from a safe distance.

The Irishman's eyes were fixed lustfully on a long, oblong-shaped object that Paul couldn't quite make out….  
He squinted and shifted on his stomach.

He had it now. A coffin.

A coffin?

He watched as Jason slowly, almost gracefully slinked toward the casket, his face alight with greed. The upward jerk of  
his curling upper-lip signaled he was laughing to himself.

He ran his hand teasingly over the lid. He had apparently decided this was where the fortune dwelt.

Struggling with the lid, Jason finally managed to lift it, while the sky above darkened and turned to twilight.

Paul watched as Jason's face quickly shifted. The man's complexion turned green, his lips trembling with an unnamable  
fear.

Paul felt his own face go cold and his stomach churn as he saw the lovely hand reach out from the coffin's depths and  
seize Jason by the throat.

Still squeezing his windpipe as he cowered paralyzed in her grasp, Josette slithered out of her coffin, fangs out, hair long  
and wild and spilling down her ivory shoulders.

Jason's piercing scream rang through Paul's ears as Josette's fangs sank into his neck.

Paul's trembling was so intense he couldn't find strength even to raise himself to his knees. His head was swimming.

The beginnings of shock were setting in.

 _Her large, terrible eyes, red, red eyes. Red. Everywhere, red. Red coursing down Jason's throat and all over her face, her_  
 _animal fangs contorting that beautiful face into that of a demon's. OH GOD Jason's getting paler now, ashen, so ashen—_

Another scream, a female scream, caught his attention, causing his blood to run even colder as he surmised the  
source.

Josette turned slowly to the stairway where this new frightened cry came from, blood dripping from her fangs, eyes rabid.  
She saw a figure Paul could not discern. Josette dropped Jason's body, where it fell limply to the floor. He was dead.  
She stalked toward the steps, where Paul could hear a soft voice begging, "Please, please don't!" Josette lunged and  
grabbed at the aquamarine figure now moving into view.

Paul found strength to finally cry out weakly, as he saw Josette ruthlessly drag Carolyn screeching from the staircase.  
"No…no…." Paul whispered disbelievingly, as if he were caught in the throws of a nightmare.

Carolyn was sobbing, trembling like a lamb. Josette whispered something that might have been a brief apology into the  
girl's ear. Then once more Josette's fangs descended, this time into Carolyn's pale neck through the gauzy scarf.

"NO!" Paul exclaimed. His instincts as a father lent him a necessary jolt of brute force, snapping him out of his stupor. He  
leapt to his feet. He tried kicking in the basement windows, but they would not give. _They would not give._ Carolyn's  
screams smothered the noise of his angry foot pounding against the resisting glass.

He sped around the corner of the house, bursting through the doors. His heart was clawing its way out of his chest as he  
neared the basement door—

Then he stopped short, the room swirling around him. He flailed his arms around helplessly as he fell to the ground, his  
world turning black.

Willie stood over him shuddering, a bust of an ancestor of Josette's in his hands. He had come to hearing the screams  
from downstairs and Paul's steps from outside. Panicking, he flattened himself against the wall. Seeing Paul, he intuited  
the man was there to help Jason hurt Josette—Willie could only assume those were Josette's screams he heard  
bellowing from below.

Spurred on by the iron thread tying him to Josette as her enthralled servant, Willie grabbed the bust and swung.  
He rubbed his arms, staring at the unconscious man who lied where he had just moments before. Willie's sobs were  
tearless. Then he rushed downstairs to help his mistress.

* * *

Carolyn was very frail now, weakening in Josette's grasp. The vampire's fingers were twisted in her blonde hair, the  
digits pressing into Carolyn's skull as the fangs dug deeper into her vein.

Josette felt nothing but her insatiable hunger vibrating through her as she held the girl tighter to her.

They were both near the end now.

Then a voice, a calm, guileless voice: _"If you kill her, sister, I will never forgive you."_

Carolyn sighed as the fangs swiftly left her throat.

Her eyes large and terrible and mortified, Josette raised her anguished face to her speaker.

Stefan stared at her from where he stood in the center of the basement.

"No…." she gasped. "No, Stefan, don't look at me."

His stare continued unrelenting as he tilted his young head—young, yet older than centuries. "I will always be here.  
Always. Yet I will forever be unforgiving if you kill the girl."

The threat of exposure, the threat of the family's revenge, all faded at the enormity of Stefan's declaration.

"I can't help myself," she whispered once more to her baby brother.

The boy's eyes glowed with a preternatural wisdom. "You can, if you really want to help yourself. If you do not, then I want  
nothing to do with you. The choice is yours, big sister."

His figure faded in front of her.

"No…no!" She reached out a shaking hand, still holding the shivering Carolyn with her other.

He was gone, as if he were never there.

Josette reflected mournfully on her brother's words.

She stared down at the panting, disoriented Carolyn, the girl's beautiful chin and neck cascading with blood.  
Josette turned her face away, self-loathing rising like bile. "WILLIE," she yelled.

Already running downstairs, Willie hurried his pace at her summons. He stopped aghast at the sight in front of him.

Jason was an almost unrecognizable bloody heap lying by the coffin, Carolyn pale and bleeding but—oh, Thank God—  
still breathing in Josette's arms.

He rushed forward to make sure of Carolyn's pulse. He didn't dare look Josette in the eye as he pressed his fingers to  
Carolyn's damp throat, not while the other woman's fangs were still out, her eyes so red, and her face gorged on two  
people's blood.

He tried choking out his floundering questions. "What—how"—

"That's what I should be asking you," Josette spat out. "You are my servant. You are supposed to protect me from such  
an occurrence as this."

His gaze wandered dumbly back and forth between Jason's body and Carolyn's. "Jason…he…he knocked me out…."

"Idiot," she hissed. Willie wasn't sure whether she referred to him or Jason.

She unceremoniously shoved Carolyn into his arms. The girl was coming to, becoming more aware of her  
surroundings.

Facing her coffin, Josette spoke in a monotone, her back to the traumatized man and woman behind her. "Dress her  
wounds. Then lock her in one of the cells here. She will stay until I decide what is to be done with her."

Still disoriented, Carolyn whimpered weakly, "What? No…."

"Shhh," Willie said reassuringly, smoothing her soft blonde hair.

He stared questioningly at Josette's stiff back. "What do you mean, 'decide what's to be done with her'?"

"I will not kill her." Willie's momentary happiness at her words quickly dissipated as she continued. "No, I will keep her  
down here and feed on her occasionally, until I can reasonably decide on her fate."

Willie shuddered and considered arguing against using Carolyn thus, but considered it a far more preferable alternative  
to death. He couldn't help but wonder why Josette was allowing Carolyn to live when Josette had disposed of Jason so  
easily, but decided not to press his luck by inquiring.

With profound grief he regarded Jason's bloody corpse.

Josette regarded it, too. "After you've settled in our guest, you may bury him," she said with careless contempt.

Willie turned away, burying his face unconsciously in the weeping Carolyn's hair.

Then his eyes flew open as he remembered her father.

His head pounded as he struggled for an excuse to leave. "Aw…aw, jeez. I just remembered, I-I left the front door open."

"Do not worry about that. I will see to it."

"NO!" He calmed himself down before she noticed his panic. He indicated her bloodstained face. "You, you don't look so  
good, frankly."

Josette absently touched her face and nodded slowly, staring at her reddened fingertips. "Yes, you are right. Very well,  
give the girl to me; I will take care of her. Go upstairs."

He carefully handed Carolyn over and winced as Josette dragged her roughly by the arm toward the most isolated cell in  
the basement, the girl sobbing in-between jagged breaths.

Willie wasted no time bounding up the basement steps.

He blanched. Paul Stoddard was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

"Good heavens, David," Barnabas said as the boy pulled him up the trail with surprising strength. "Calm down, will you?  
I'm sure it's nothing."

David's face was set, determined. "It's never nothing. Not when Stefan's involved."

Barnabas would have rolled his eyes if it weren't for the chilling solemnity of the boy's manner.

Barnabas had misjudged the time it would take walking down to the beach, and it was just past sunset when David led him to the spot the tutor had originally vacated in his quest to check the tide.

They reached the clearing where the picnic basket lay neglected.

Barnabas gave the place a cursory glance around. "Well, David, it seems that ghostly little fellow misled you. As did I with  
the time. Looks like our picnic and your dip in the sea is unfortunately postponed"—

"Shh!" David pointed to the trees just ahead of them.

Barnabas listened. Heavy, leaden footsteps were approaching.

Barnabas and David stepped back, faces pale as the gray-haired, middle-aged gentleman from before stumbled  
forward from the brush, eyes wide and staring and uncomprehending.

He fell to his knees. He was in deep shock.

His voice was soft with maddened grief. "The eyes…the eyes…."

Barnabas drew David to him. He recognized those words from the police reports concerning those mysterious nocturnal  
attacks.

"Sir?" He asked softly.  
The man did not acknowledge Barnabas, did not seem to notice either him or David. Instead he continued staring,  
incoherent and lost, into a paralyzing distant point only he could see, eyes stupefied and wild. His lips trembled. He  
struggled to say one word more.

"Carolyn…."


	7. Chapter 7

"The eyes…the _eyes_ …."

"Yes, Mr. Stoddard, you've said that before. But what else can you remember? What _about_ those eyes? What do they  
have to do with your daughter Carolyn?"

Lips trembled, eyes squinted in agony. _"Carolyn."_

"Well, Julia?" A voice asked from the back of the room.

Dr. Julia Hoffman sighed and stood from where she'd been examining Paul Stoddard in his room at Collinsport's  
Hospital. She turned to face Dr. Woodard, who was standing warily with crossed arms near the door.

As Collinsport Hospital's resident psychiatrist, Hoffman was an oft-quoted figure in the papers lately thanks to the  
mysterious attacks, the doctor having never been more in demand than trying unsuccessfully to reach the few human  
victims. Similar to the doctor herself, the town was holding its breath waiting to see if Paul Stoddard would have more  
information than his fellow victims: after all, he was the first to mention something more than "the eyes"; and with his  
daughter's disappearance, his heartbroken utterances of "Carolyn" were considered all the more chilling.

However, nothing more could be pulled out of him.

Julia shook her head in reply to Woodard, both exhausted and frustrated.

"Nothing new, Dave. Never anything new. I don't think it's the trauma from however he got that blow to his head. No,  
whatever he saw was too much for him. I doubt he'll ever recover from his shock."

Dave Woodard was Collinsport's most trusted physician, but at this point even he had to agree. "Don't take it so hard,  
Julia. You've been working on this harder than anyone. If you can't crack this, no one can."

A sharp cough caught their attention. Elizabeth Collins Stoddard stood in the doorway.

Both doctors mentally prepared themselves.

"No one in _town_ can 'crack this', Dr. Woodard. But perhaps someone from outside can." Elizabeth's voice was icy but  
there was fire in her eyes.

Gone was the melancholy gentleness that helped soften the rigidly regal image Collinsport had of Elizabeth. In the past  
week she'd had to face what would have crumpled many: the town learned of Paul Stoddard's scandalous return to life, Paul had gone mad with shock, and Carolyn…Carolyn was gone. No trace.

Instead of breaking her, trauma had steeled Elizabeth. Fear for her daughter stirred her to action. She had spent the  
majority of her days pacing the waiting room while they examined Paul. "It's almost like she's treating this as a police  
interrogation," Woodard had once snidely remarked to Julia.

Julia stepped forward now, straining to be at her most tactful. "Mrs. Stoddard, we have plenty of resources here in  
Collinsport. I don't know what else we could do"—

"No, you don't, do you?" Her voice was low and even, which strangely pronounced rather than softened her words. She  
stared with quietly seething eyes at the unaware Paul. Her estranged husband gazed back with that unseeing look of  
haggard terror in his own eyes, gray hair matted and wild, skin ashen.

Liz addressed the two doctors before her. "If this is the most you can do to help find my daughter, I will look elsewhere.  
I'm leaving at once. Expect me back by tomorrow night at the latest."

"Mrs. Stoddard"—Julia was cut off by the door closing shut in her face.

"Where do you think she's going?" Dave asked.  
Julia had to stifle her tired laugh. "No idea, Dave. The woman's on a mission, that much is for sure."

* * *

A numb, nervous stillness descended on Collinwood in the wake of Carolyn's disappearance and the truth about Paul.  
For a family unused to sharing their emotions, this did little to help that matter; in fact, each member of the unfortunate

Collins brood internalized their feelings all the more, locking themselves away with their own private grief and fear.  
For a relative outsider like Barnabas, this emotional isolation was stifling.

Only David was accessible to him, and just barely. Barnabas suspended their lessons for the time being, watching in  
quiet despair as the boy, who had been coming out of his shell with such marked progress recently, showed increased  
signs of disturbed, focused energy, withdrawing into himself once more.

On the night after Elizabeth left Collinsport in her mysterious pursuit of help, David focused his energy on some unseen  
point out the drawing room's window.

His body was still as stone, contrasting to the stormy vitality of the eyes peeking out from where his head almost  
disappeared into his crossed arms. These arms were wrapped around his knees as he sat on the window seat, staring,  
staring out into the darkness.

Barnabas found himself once again spouting those blasted platitudes that had helplessly escaped him since the two  
first came across the disoriented Paul almost a week before. With the realization his cousin was gone, David had  
lurched headlong into hysterics, screaming for Stefan's help, until his father had ordered him to his room for the  
following two days.

Barnabas had been the one to get him out of there. Yet even his steady loving presence couldn't penetrate the barrier  
David subsequently put up when neither Stefan nor the police were evidently able to help.

The concerned tutor was interrupted in his current mumbled words of comfort by Roger's entrance.

Roger was ruled at various points by two warring forces: sharp suspicion and lackadaisical disinterest. To his volatile  
and heartbroken little son, Roger displayed the latter as he swept past the huddling pair and helped himself to a brandy  
at the bar.

He was too preoccupied with the former, betrayed and shocked at the revelation that Paul was alive and that Elizabeth  
had kept this from him; suspicious about the disappearance of Jason McGuire that coincided nicely with Carolyn going  
missing.

Knowing that Carolyn had followed Jason and Paul to what Barnabas told Roger was the path to the Old House, Roger  
had stormed in and threatened, bullied, and harassed Willie for information; the harried groundskeeper only replied in  
whimpers and repeated denials.

As Roger ground his teeth at the decanter, he grew more and more convinced the man was lying.

But what more could be done? Roger had dragged the police in to investigate; despite Willie's suspiciously frightened  
behavior, they too could get nothing useful out of him.

Roger glanced tiredly at Barnabas's futile attempts to rouse David. "Come on then, David! The police are cracking away  
at the case! Carolyn wouldn't want you so depressed, you know that."

David's small voice answered tonelessly. "What does it matter? She's dead."

Both jumped as Roger slammed down the decanter. "That's enough out of you, young man!" Roger snapped. "Of all the  
appalling bad taste. You ought to be ashamed, _ashamed_!"

Barnabas tried playing the man of peace. "Now, Roger, obviously the boy's upset"—

"I don't give a damn how upset he is! We all are! Carolyn"—He broke off for a moment, steadying himself. "Carolyn's  
been more like a daughter to me than a niece." He sneered contemptuously at David. "She's certainly been more of a  
comfort to me since your mother's death than you ever were."

"Roger, that's enough!" Barnabas reddened, finally losing his temper as he noticed David's body tense and his face sink  
lower into his arms in reaction to his father's venomous words.

Roger swilled down the rest of his brandy in one slug, then marched out of the room, casting one last livid glance at his  
son.

Barnabas sighed, turning his eyes upward helplessly. "Don't listen to him, David. We're _all_ upset, not thinking before we  
speak."

Barnabas's heart practically melted when David spoke in an uncharacteristically vulnerable, childlike voice wavering with  
unshed tears. "I miss her…."

Barnabas drew his small form into a hug. "I know, champ, I know." He ruffled David's hair as the older man stared with  
pained eyes into the distance.

A knock on the door stirred him.

Delicately releasing David with a reassuring squeeze, he answered and for the first time in a week smiled genuinely  
when he saw the visitor.

Josette stood tentatively in the doorway, expression appropriately mournful. "May I come in?" She asked warmly.

"Oh, yes, yes. Please do, darling."

He took her shawl from her. "I've missed you."

She nodded. "Yes, I'm sorry for staying away. But I thought..." She bit her lower lip. "I thought I might wait until things  
settled down here before visiting. I wanted to give the family some peace and quiet during this awful, _awful_ time."

"That was very considerate of you, dear," He kissed her temple, putting his arm around her shoulders. "We are all in a bit  
of a mess, quite frankly."

 _"What is_ she _doing here?"_

Barnabas and Josette halted at the drawing room's entryway, where David stood with balled fists staring accusingly at  
Josette.

"David…." Barnabas began in a warning voice.

"Oh, please, Barnabas," Josette stopped him with a soft hand on his chest. "The poor boy probably only wants his family  
around right now."

She bent down to his height. Her voice was the sweet, calming coo of a dove's. "Is that it, darling?"

David looked into her large, fawn-like eyes, and eventually found it: that sharp, twisted gleam, hidden far, far in the  
depths, but nonetheless there, staring right back at him.

 _"You're evil,"_ he spat out. Before a censuring word could reproach him, he sped upstairs. They heard his bedroom door  
slam shut.

"Oh, good lord," Barnabas rubbed his eyes. "First his father berates him with cruel words, then he does the same to you.  
The cycle goes on." He took Josette in his arms. "Don't listen to him, sweetheart. He doesn't know what he's about."

Josette forced the steel to leave her as she answered in a carefully controlled voice. "Oh, no, of course not. Perhaps I  
 _shouldn't_ have come, but I just so desperately wanted to see you."

"I'm glad you came." He sat her down on the sofa. "You're just what I needed." He collapsed sadly into the seat beside  
her.

She took his hand in hers. "Mon cher! What you've been through! What you've all been through."

His half-smirk was rueful, depressed. "Yes, what we've all been through. Every one of us. There's no denying our Carolyn  
can be a handful, but…" His voice quieted, as he grew more speculative, more sadly gentle in his words. "But now that  
she's gone, I think we're all realizing how much she means to us. Elizabeth, of course, treasures her more than anything  
on this earth. Losing her has hardened Liz, made her desperate. She's left Collinsport to look for outside help."

He didn't notice Josette stiffen slightly. "Oh? What sort of help?"

He shrugged. "God only knows. She isn't telling us. Hasn't time anymore. She's so changed. She's not the only one. David…well, you saw David. He's always been apt to turn morbid, but there's a tinge of hysteria to it now. Carolyn's like a sister to him. They have their spats; she gets impatient with him, he likes teasing her. But they're both very protective of one another. And Roger, he's well-nigh unbearable these days. Whereas before he'd simply neglect David, now he's prone to making unbelievably nasty, horrid remarks to him. Roger always wanted a daughter, apparently, but because his wife died so young, they never had the chance. He's viewed Carolyn as a surrogate. He's taking this just as hard as Liz and David, really."

"And what of you?" Josette inquired delicately.

He studied his hands quietly for a moment. "I always wanted a little sister. My mother…" He swallowed. "My mother was  
three months pregnant when she died. I remember how excited I was, young stripling that I was, at the prospect of  
playing the older, wiser pedantic figure to some cheerful, brassy, snotty little female. With Carolyn…well, I guess without  
my realizing it, she's come to fill that void…." He frowned as Josette suddenly shifted, turning her face away, her  
fingernails digging into the arm of the sofa. "Josette? Are you all right?"

Once again she willed herself to relax. "Yes, _mon ami_. I just…I just feel so strongly for you. So strongly for your pain." Her  
eyes were deep and mysterious pools of loathing. Her words shot out like darts. _"I hope wherever the perpetrator is, it_  
 _feels the agony it is causing."_

Barnabas raised his eyebrows, skeptical. "The police believe the attacker's an animal. Can an animal even feel  
empathy?"

Josette's expression was grim, melancholy. "Oh, yes. Some can. Animals have families, loved ones. If they lose those  
loved ones, they can feel the awful sting all over again if reminded of it."

Barnabas remained unsure. "I doubt many animals are that sophisticated. You…you almost sound like you sympathize  
with whatever it is."

She chose her next words carefully. "In a way." Her lips tightened and her voice held that strange metallic twist that  
continually mystified Barnabas. "But not enough to forgive. I hate this creature. Hate it more than anything alive."

* * *

"…Subject has completely recovered from concussion, blood pressure and pulse remaining stable; unfortunately, so is  
his shock," Julia spoke into her recorder that same evening. Her office desk was littered with patient files and notes, the  
majority concerning Paul. As she mindlessly studied the dark blue night through the slits of her window blinds, Julia  
went on. "Conventional methods continue to fail"—

"Don't they always," asked a familiar, facetious voice, tone heavy with musty books and high breeding.

Julia whipped around, a wide, surprised grin on her face. "Eliot!"

The large, stately man who had entered her office returned her grin. Gray, shaggy hair covered a face resembling a wise,  
weathered bulldog's. He wore a brown tweed jacket over his buffalo-big shoulders and barrel chest. Not at all what you'd  
call a handsome man, Professor T. Eliot Stokes nevertheless tended to command any room he entered, complementing  
his imposing frame with a quiet, studious, slightly sinister manner.

Having been mentored in her college days by Stokes, Julia was used to his distinct and unsettling presence and thought  
nothing of grabbing him in a friendly bear hug.

"Eliot Stokes, you son-of-a-bitch. What the hell are you doing here?"

Patting her paternally on the back, Stokes answered. "I've been summoned here by an anxious mother."

Julia's shoulders slumped as she followed his meaning. "Mrs. Stoddard, eh?"

He inclined his head.

Julia rolled her eyes. "Jesus. She went all the way to Windcliff just to bring you down here and ruin all my hard work,  
huh?"

"Precisely."

Julia crossed her arms, leaning against her desk. "All right, what's the scheme?"

He placed his satchel on the floor, removing his scarf as he entered the room more fully. "You know, Julia, I've been  
following the recent news here in Collinsport from my stuffy office at Windcliff and the university. Fascinating stuff, truly  
fascinating. Buried as I was up there, I doubted I'd get the chance to come down, dearly as I wanted to assist you and  
Dave. How is that old rotter, by the by?"

"Same. Concerned, practical, and always suffering slightly from indigestion."

"Ah, good. Anyhow, my luck changed yesterday when the beautiful and infuriated Mrs. Stoddard stormed into my office  
and offered me her home and her services if I could get to the bottom of the case."

"Your reputation travels far," Julia noted sardonically.

"Evidently. Given the pretty payment she offered me and how tantalizing the entire prospect was"—

Julia interrupted him. "Now wait a minute, Eliot. What does someone like you find so 'fascinating' about all this? The  
symptoms are strange, yes, but at the end of the day, it's just some wild animal loose."

Eliot's look was strange and remote. "Are you quite sure about that, Julia?"

Julia looked at him puzzled for a moment. Then a warning expression crossed her face as she shook her head  
vehemently. "Oh, no. No, you don't. I'm not going to even hear it."

"Think, Julia. Remember what I used to teach you. The occult does thrive, even in this benighted era."

Julia chuckled to herself. "I should have known. Should have foreseen you'd take the fantastical route here. Eliot, you've  
the mind of a genius but the heart of a medieval alchemist. There is nothing even faintly supernatural about what's going  
on here. New breeds of animal are being discovered all the time"—

Eliot stopped her. "I don't want to argue with you, Julia. I've taken more than my share of derision from you and Dave over  
the years. However, like it or not, I've been commissioned with a job to do." He straightened, the quintessential  
professional. "I should like to see Mr. Stoddard now, per his wife's instructions."

"What are you going to try, hypnosis? I've done that, believe me, and nothing."

"You are a _very_ talented psychiatrist, Julia." He searched for the most tactful way to frame his next words. "But I might  
have… _certain talents of my own_ that could just trump yours in this particular instance."

Julia exhaled sharply out her nose, straining not to lose her temper. "It's no good, Eliot. I know what 'talents' you're  
alluding to. You're not going to get a thing out of him."

Eliot remained urbanely even-tempered. "'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, then are dreamt of in your  
philosophy'."

"Yeah, yeah," Julia mumbled under her breath. She looked at him askance. "I assume the wealthy Mrs. Stoddard was  
granted permission from our board of directors?"

He handed her the slip of paper detailing the confirmation.

Taking a cursory glance, she shrugged and waved her hand for him to follow her. "All right, then. This way."

* * *

Paul Stoddard lied in his hospital bed gazing into some unknown abyss, the evening fading quickly into night outside.

Two slight clicks meant the door was opened then shut, quietly.

"Hello, Mr. Stoddard," came a confident, strange new voice.

Eliot Stokes's face appeared above him. "I have a feeling I'll get nothing pertinent out of you just talking. Mainly because  
you can't talk the way you are, can you, poor man? Ha, look at me, asking if you can talk when I know it's impossible.  
Human nature, I suppose, to try to make any connection we can when confronted with another human being, never mind  
what logic dictates. But here," he reached for something inside his jacket's pocket. "I have a small trinket that disregards  
human nature and logic completely."

All at once Paul felt himself go rigid with attention. Eliot Stokes pulled out a glimmering green crystal dangling from a  
gold chain.

The professor's voice was a deep, low vibration underlying the swinging gem. "Watch the light reflect off the crystal, Mr.  
Stoddard. Stare deeply into it. In the light you will see what happened to your daughter, to your Carolyn…."

Paul's eyes widened as the light turned into a long mane of blonde hair. "Carolyn…." He gasped.

"Yes, Mr. Stoddard. Where is she?"

The crystal's sloping edges surrounding the bright light of his girl's hair turned into the arching roof of "…the Old House."

"The Old House, eh? Keep staring into the crystal, into the Old House. What is happening there?"

At the bottom of the crystal a hand emerged, wearing a ruby ring that looked like a spot of blood against those ivory  
fingers.

Paul's heart rate increased. He breathed heavily.

"What is happening, Mr. Stoddard?"

Next he saw: "The eyes! The _eyes_!"

"Whose eyes?"

The figure with the ring and the eyes descended on the bright mane of hair. Paul could hear Carolyn's screams again.

"No… _no_ …."

Eliot's voice was unrelenting yet smoothly unemotional. "Keep staring, Paul. What do you see?"

"Fangs…."

"Fangs?" A new hungry edge was just barely discernible in Stokes's calm voice. "Fangs that belong to those eyes?"

Tears streamed out of the corner of Paul's eyes, yet he was unable to turn away from the swaying crystal and its  
madhouse within.

"Yes! Yes!"

"Now answer me, Mr. Stoddard, answer me: _Whose eyes? Whose fangs?_ "

The face devouring Carolyn's neck slowly, very slowly turned until those eyes were locked on Paul's.

In a hideously loathing snarl, Paul answered: "Josette. _Josette!_ "

* * *

Julia waited in the hallway, caught between her feelings of impatience with Stokes's methods and her reluctant anxiety.

After half an hour, Stokes stepped out, stone-faced, inscrutable.

"Well?" Julia asked softly.

"Well, there's _some_ good news, at least. He's come out of his shock."

Julia's mouth dropped open. "He has?"

"Mm."

"Why, I-I have to go get Dave! Some nurses! What…what did he say?" She grabbed him by the arm, shaking it in her  
excitement.

He shrugged despairingly. "Nothing, I am afraid. He's coherent now, but remembers nothing, absolutely nothing of the  
incident. The last thing he remembers is going shopping with his daughter. I had to break the news to him gently, very  
gently. But I think he will be all right now."

Julia leaned her head back against the wall. "Well, at least he's coherent again. Not that that alone will please Mrs.  
Stoddard."

Elliot chuckled. "No, I suppose not. But unfortunately, I am about to make her an even unhappier woman."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean to propose placing him in Collinwood."

Julia looked at him as if he were an escaped inmate from his own hospital. "Collinwood? Good God, why?"

"It is my theory he will recover even better, and possibly remember more of the incident, if he's surrounded by familiar  
sights and sounds—particularly since the Collins boy and his tutor found him on the property, as I seem to recall."

Julia conceded to his point. "Yes, well, environment does often play an important role in these cases. Hopefully Mrs.  
Stoddard will see your point of view."

"Once I explain how this might increase the chances of finding her daughter, I'm sure she'll listen to reason."

Julia hesitated before speaking. "I somehow doubt we'll find the girl alive."

"Stranger things have happened, Julia." He kissed her on the forehead. "You're looking lovelier all the time, you know  
that?"

Julia smirked. "Flirt."

He laughed. "You know, morbid as all this is, I have to admit I share a certain fascination for this part of the countryside. I  
especially look forward to visiting the Old House Mrs. Stoddard was telling me about. Supposed to be rich with history."

Keeping his face casual, he studied Julia out of the corner of his eye. "A girl new to the area has taken residence there,  
correct? Josephine Something, was it?"

"Josette. Josette DuPres."

"Ah, yes! Lovely name, that." He winked at her. "Goodnight, Julia."

* * *

An hour later, Barnabas and Josette walked slowly and somberly out toward the front hall, speaking in the involuntary  
hushed tones people use in a house full of mourning.

Barnabas placed her shawl on her shoulders. "Goodnight, dear," Josette smiled sweetly to him. "Perhaps tomorrow will  
bring more news."

"I hope to God." He leaned in for a kiss, but the door opening interrupted them.

Liz and a stranger entered.

"Ah! Barnabas, Josette. I'd like you to meet someone who's already done a world of good: Professor Eliot Stokes.  
Professor Stokes, this is my cousin, Barnabas."

The large man with the sardonic eyes stepped forward, shaking Barnabas's hand with a disinterested how do you do.

He turned silently to Josette.

Josette, possessing the instincts of a cat, sensed the presence of a threat.

Elizabeth continued. "Professor, this is Josette DuPres, the young lady I was telling you about."

A slow grin formed on his rather oversized lips. "Ah, yes! Why, she's even lovelier than you described, Elizabeth." He  
bowed with what Josette felt was a mock display of civility. "An honor, Miss."

She returned his gesture with elegance colder than usual. "Thank you, Professor."

Similar to her encounter with Jason, Josette's eyes never left the Professor's, their expression opaque yet guarded.

Elizabeth explained his presence. "He's gotten Paul out of that stupor he was in." She hushed Barnabas's excited  
barrage of questions with a raised hand. "Unfortunately, Paul is still blocking out the memory of what happened to  
Carolyn. However," she steeled herself. "However, the professor hopes that if Paul is placed here"—

"Here?" Barnabas asked in surprise.

She nodded grimly. "Yes, here. If he comes back to Collinwood…well…Professor, you might explain it better."

"Of course, ma'am." He finally turned his eyes away from Josette's, addressing the group as a whole. "If Mr. Stoddard is  
surrounded by people he knows, and in familiar environs—particularly the environs close to where he was found—there  
is an increased chance his memory will return."

"The hospital's discharging him tomorrow and placing him here," Elizabeth added.

Stokes snuck another sly glance at Josette. "Why, Miss DuPres, are you all right, my dear?"

Josette cleared her throat, shaken from her own stupor. "Why do you ask, Professor?"

His expression displayed nothing but a detached, solicitous concern, yet his eyes were malevolently teasing. "You've  
gone white as a sheet. I noticed it as soon as I mentioned the possibility of Mr. Stoddard's memory returning.  
Doubtless," he said in deliberately gracious tones, "Doubtless because the possibility is so anticipated."

Josette almost succeeded in keeping the metallic twist out of her voice in answering. "I suppose so." She turned to  
Elizabeth. "I am very happy at this fortunate bit of news, Elizabeth. Goodnight."

Her shawl started slipping from her shoulders. As Barnabas was preoccupied plying Liz with more questions, Stokes  
quickly stepped in, helping rearrange it on her shoulders.

"Thank you," she said swiftly, turning to acknowledge him.

He wasn't looking at her. His laughing eyes were locked behind her. She turned.

She gazed into the hall mirror that was supposed to be reflecting both of them.

Josette practically lunged toward the door. Stokes again beat her to her escape by opening it for her.

"Goodnight, Miss DuPres," He said in a smugly cavalier voice. He leaned into the night as she stepped out. "And may I  
just say what lovely _eyes_ you have." A wide, satisfied grin and then a shut door bid Josette adieu.

She shivered with rage. She was now resolute. She stepped into the shadows. Peeking through one of the windows at  
the side of the house, Josette observed as Elizabeth led Stokes upstairs to one of the closest rooms at the top.

* * *

Deep into the night, Eliot Stokes's room was silent, dark, save for the moonlight streaming in through the partly opened  
curtains.

All at once a small shadow blotted this light, accompanied by the slight sound of wings beating against the night air.  
The silhouette of a bat hovered unnaturally outside the window, seemingly watching the bulky figure in bed, obscured by  
blankets.

Just as suddenly as the bat had appeared it was gone.

And Josette was in the room.

Her cloaked figure stalked slowly toward the bed, savoring the hunt.

She sneered derisively at the motionless lump in its bed, the professor's form unaware of the fangs above him,  
descending rapidly now.

She flinched as the light suddenly snapped on.

"Welcome to my abode, Miss DuPres."

Josette spun around, eyes dangerous slits.

In the armchair by the closet sat the urbane Professor Stokes in elegant dressing gown and slippers, pipe in hand, face  
maddeningly serene, grin wily and expectant.

* * *

 **A/N: Hate to break it to the many die-hard Julia fans out there, but this might be the only time we see her in my story. I**  
 **won't swear to it, but at this point that's how it looks. As you can tell, a certain professor will be filling her usual role.**  
 **Both characters' morality and ethical codes are, as the title suggests, flipped here.**


	8. Chapter 8

Underneath his cool reserve, even Stokes couldn't deny that he quailed at the sight of that delicate and beautiful face  
suddenly contort into that of a snarling, feral creature's, eyes slit and mouth contracted as she bared her fangs.

Yet the front he presented to Josette remained ever smooth and bland. He swept up from his chair, lighting his pipe. "I  
have been waiting for this, Madame, for a long, long time."

Even her body language—she coiled away from him slightly, shoulders hunched, seemingly about to pounce—  
suggested some unearthly predator. "I would be obliged if you explained yourself." The steely bite in her voice undercut  
the sarcastic civility of her words.

Defying his instinct as a human being to preserve himself, Stokes casually approached nearer to where she stood by  
the bed. "I have studied long in preparation of someday meeting someone like you. You see, I know what you are. You  
are Josette DuPres—the original Josette DuPres, who never died in 1795, but lived on—or, shall I say, continued on  
undead."

For all Josette tried to affect cool, murderous indifference, he noted her shudder.

He pointed to her partly opened lips. "Ah! Don't deny it, my lady! Those lovely fangs are your give-away."

She startled him with an ugly laugh. "All right, I will not deny it, Professor. But you must admit, by confessing your  
knowledge you have put your life in a very precarious position."

"Yes, obviously. That is why I took the precaution of placing this in my bed." He threw back the covers, revealing a CPR  
dummy. He knocked on its head. "Good old Rudolph. He always comes in handy in a pinch."

"Yes, but here you are." She flexed her fingers at her sides, slithering closer. "And here I am. As you see, you haven't  
escaped danger at all."

All at once her arms struck out quick as cobras and her hands squeezed around his windpipe, paralyzing him in a  
chokehold.

To an outsider, it was almost a comical sight: those frail, porcelain hands gripping that thick bear's throat. Stokes  
coughed, choking for breath.

He managed to sputter out a few words. "I can help you!"

She frowned contemptuously, never weakening her grip. "Help me? There is no help for the damned, Professor Stokes.  
They might not teach that to you at your modern medical schools, but I assure you, some things are older than science."

"You're wrong!" He choked out. "Science and magic are one! I have studied your kind for years"—

Her grip relaxed momentarily as her eyes widened. "My kind? Are there more like me?"

"None that I've met," he confessed. "But there have been numerous reports over the centuries, too many to ignore! I have  
spent my life looking for ways to blend the supernatural and the scientific, to cure those with your affliction!"

Her hands left his throat as swiftly as they had attacked it.

She spoke warily, eying him with suppressed hope. "You say this only to save yourself."

Massaging his neck, he addressed her peevishly. "Don't be foolish. Would I come here and expose my motives to you if I  
didn't think I could help you?"

"Tell me, then. How would you go about curing me?"

"From what I've read, I've come to the conclusion your body cannot accept whole blood, thus the constant seeking to  
replenish it. I am in the final stage of developing a serum that contains a new sort of plasma that could substitute the  
cells you are missing."

Her eyes were quick darts that ran over him as she thought. "Could it be possible," she murmured.

"More than possible," he came back strongly. "You just have to trust me."

Even in the half-light of the room, even as her face was filled with tempestuous fire, she was a sight more glorious than  
any he'd ever seen. "Trust you?" She asked cynically. "Why should I, when you are bringing into this house the very man  
who could ruin me?"

"Paul Stoddard? My dear, it is for your very protection that I bring him under this roof."

"What do you mean?" Her eyes slit again.

He hastened to explain. "I have him even now under a deep hypnosis. He is able to function as he did before, but in a  
state of amnesia concerning the truth about you. However, to ensure he remain so, I will have to keep a close eye on his  
movements, to regularly 'treat' him."

"And what should keep me from merely killing him when he returns? Seems the simpler solution to me," she responded  
carelessly.

Stokes's tone was serious. "Because if he dies, I will refuse to treat you."

"Then I will kill you," she shot back.

He shrugged. "Up to you. But with me dies the cure."

Josette ruminated. "What are your chances for success," she asked at last.

"Judging by my notes, quite good. However, I have as yet to try it out on a proper subject. I will have no idea until after a  
trial."

Her shoulders hunched again as she considered a new possibility. "How do I know you will not use this 'serum' to  
instead try to kill me?"

He straightened. "Look at me, Miss DuPres. What do you see? You see before you a man devoted to science, devoted to  
the occult—obsessed and driven to find a way to fuse the two. You are my only hope of doing so. If I can use fact-based,  
provable methods to cure you, a supernatural creature, I will fulfill my life's ambitions. You are far more precious to me  
alive than dead."

She read his now humorless and stoic face. She found her true answer there.

"You interest me, Professor," she said softly. Her lips curled into a coy smile. "You interest me very much."

* * *

The next evening was cold and bitter, autumn's end rapidly approaching.

For the prisoner Carolyn Stoddard, the outside of her miserable, dark cell in the Old House's basement was quickly  
becoming a fantastical dream, a beautiful, unattainable fantasy that might never have existed outside her feverish brain.

She had been delirious the first couple of days of her confinement, recovering from Josette's attack. Recovery was a  
slow process, seeing as her beautiful, venomous jailer visited her each night, sipping greedily at Carolyn's wounds.  
Carolyn didn't know what disgusted and terrified her more, those sharp fangs contrasted with the angelic face, or that  
she had once been close friends, an advocate of this creature.

Each night, Josette took her to the brink of turning, to death; each night, she drew her away from that brink, seemingly  
motivated by a perverse guilt to spare Carolyn that much torment.

But having been fed upon this long had its effects on Carolyn. She gradually felt unearthly strength surge in her veins,  
and her mind drift in and out between a dreary delirium and sharp, panicky consciousness.

A strange psychic connection sprung between victim and perpetrator. Carolyn started to feel, to know when Josette was  
about to visit her, could taste the predator's hunger and her strong emotions from miles away.  
Deep in her delirious nightmares, Carolyn could almost see things, misty visions from the past that were like memories  
to her, yet couldn't be.

With Carolyn's recovery came panic; with panic, came resolve to fight, to live. When not too heavily influenced by Josette's  
presence in the house and in her veins, Carolyn would dart about her small cell, frantically inspecting every corner and  
brick, desperate to find some means of escape. She had always detested the damsel in distress type, and if it killed her  
trying, she would never stop looking for a way out, to save herself.

However, her other attempts at escape did involve a certain amount of what felt to her like spineless supplication that  
she couldn't help: pleading with and cajoling Willie.

Willie himself didn't know what he preferred: her numb delirium, when he'd enter the cell and find her huddling  
mesmerized in a corner, her long blonde hair covering her as she stared ahead with glazed eyes; or when she'd be  
frighteningly aware, clutching the bars that made up a small square of her prison's door, begging in a heart-rending  
voice to let her go.

Either way Willie felt impotent, worthless. After looking down into the chasm of absolute evil that Josette at her worst was  
capable of, Willie surprised himself by shrinking away, rejecting her cruelty and brutality. Unarmed at discovering a  
conscience in himself after so many years, Willie was ill equipped to take a stand one way or the other morally: fight  
Josette or fight her enemies. He was compelled as Josette's slave to usually attempt the latter.

Yet on this evening when he took Carolyn her meal, he had never so desperately wished it otherwise.

She was in one of her weaker states, having exhausted herself spending the whole day searching for a secret passage,  
clawing at the ground in a mad attempt to dig a hole, anything, anything for escape.

Bitter and disappointed at failing once more, she sat with her arms locked tightly around her knees on her cot when  
Willie entered, her defeated head against the wall.

"C-Carolyn?" Willie asked softly, fidgeting with the tray.

"Hello, Willie," she said in a dull voice.

Her words and her tones made a shiver run up his spine. It sounded…it sounded like giving up. And while she tore his  
heart out when she was hysterical with panic, he felt at this moment that anything was better than this hollow  
resignation.

He cleared his throat. "I…I brought ya supper."

"Thank you, Willie," she said in the same way from before. Her eyes were stony, her expression curiously blank.  
Willie placed the tray of soup delicately on the cot beside her. Then he stood by awkwardly, not sure what to do with his  
hands as they flopped in and out of his pockets.

With face downcast, he studied her out of the corner of his eye, drinking her in.

Since that day when he'd released the Collins family's oldest and most terrible secret, everything had been dark and  
hopeless in Willie Loomis's life. There was no reprieve from serving out Josette's will, no relief from the hypocrisy of the  
lie he had to lead each day.

And yet, now there was Carolyn.

There was someone beautiful but innocent; _truly_ innocent, not imitating the sickening front Josette presented to the  
family and the town. Here was someone who fought for freedom with all the will and bravery that he, Willie, lacked.

In spite of himself, in spite of the inappropriate and dangerous circumstances, Willie found himself enamored.

And so he stood by, waiting for her to cry, to abuse him, to rightfully upbraid him, to say anything, anything at all, anything.  
He was finally granted one of his wishes, as much as it pained him to see it. All of a sudden Carolyn cried out, "Oh, God,"  
then she shivered and sobbed, covering her face with her hands.

Swiftly he removed the tray to the ground and took its place on the cot, trembling as he gathered Carolyn in his arms.

"Hey, hey! Don't, Carolyn! Don't! It won't do ya no good! Please don't!"

She abandoned herself to her enraged, frustrated tears, hardly knowing what she was about as she buried her face in  
his chest, her hands grasping his wrists.

"There's no hope, Willie! None!"

He rocked her back-and-forth, his cheek resting in her hair. "Naw, naw. Don't say that, honey. That ain't true. There's  
always hope…." He couldn't keep the tremor out of his voice that revealed his lack of faith in his statement.

They both flinched as the basement door shut above them. Willie frowned as he detected four footsteps descending  
instead of two.

He casually and slowly removed himself from the cell, careful not to alarm the still weeping Carolyn. A ways down the  
basement at the foot of the steps he stopped surprised at the large, impressive, elegantly attired stranger that was  
companion to his mistress.

Willie looked from one to the other, his face a question mark. "Who…?"

"Willie," Josette said, "This is Professor Eliot Stokes. He is here to help me. He promises me a cure."

Willie blinked, unable to process this new information presented so plainly and tersely. "Yeah?" He managed.

"Yeah," the other man sardonically echoed. He quickly inspected the expansive space around them. "I do love these old  
mansions. Always loads of room, even in an isolated place like this basement. This will serve perfectly for my  
experiments." He glanced back at Willie from under gray bushy brows. "You are the manservant, good sir?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am."

"Very good." He removed his gloves. "I will require your assistance. In my vehicle I have several fragile pieces of  
equipment I need set up, plus you must bring two or three tables down here."

"Um," Willie interrupted, still astonished at this sudden development. "Wait a minute, now. He-he knows everything?"  
Josette was silent. She only nodded.

Willie shook his head. "Even, even about Carolyn?"

He swallowed as he saw Josette's eyes suddenly gleam at him accusingly as Stokes sputtered.

"What?" The man boomed. "What about Carolyn Stoddard?"

Before Josette could pacify him, a small voice called from down a corridor Stokes had not noticed in the dim light in the  
basement. "Hello? Is somebody there?"

He glared at Josette. Then before she could stop him he stormed off toward the voice, Josette and Willie at his heels.

Josette tried soothing him with honeyed words. "My dear Professor Stokes, you should be grateful I haven't killed the girl!  
Truly, don't bother yourself with her. She's quite safe."

Stokes didn't heed her words. He stopped short as he saw the white hands that clutched the bars of a door to a cramped  
little room, down a musty hall coated in cobwebs and stained with mildew. His heart ached at the sad, frantic eyes that  
peered out at him, blonde hair disheveled and wild about her face. " _Please_ ," Carolyn pleaded. "Please, I don't know who  
you are, but get me out of this place!"

"Hush, child!" Josette spat out. "You forget yourself."

Stokes took a moment to collect himself. Then in a voice low with righteous anger, he addressed Josette. "Madame, I  
refuse, absolutely refuse to work under such conditions."

Josette practically hissed at him. "What? How dare you! What, did you think I wouldn't harm a fly?"

"I assumed the girl was dead!"

Josette laughed disbelievingly. "Oh, and that's better?"

He pointed angrily at the weary girl watching the scene desperately. "Anything's better than this miserable charade of a  
life you have her leading! I will not lift a finger to help you if you do not let her go."

"You really do amaze me, Professor. I almost mistook you for possessing a modicum of common sense. Do you really  
think I would allow her to go free? She would tell everything."

"You forget, Madame, of how I dealt with her father." He removed from his breast pocket that eerily beautiful crystal  
dangling from its golden chain. "This little device will wipe her memory clean." He quirked an eyebrow. "What do you  
say?"

Josette fumed a bit, thinking. It would be so much simpler to kill Carolyn and Stokes both. But Stokes was her only hope  
for a cure, and Carolyn….

Josette remembered her baby brother's words.

"How do I know it will work?"

"If I succeed, she will fall into a trance, so that your man here can safely return her to Collinwood. I'll supply him with a  
signal to give her that will make her come to. When she does, the last thing she will remember is speaking with her  
cousins before seeing her father and Jason McGuire come to this house."

A new thought suddenly occurred to Josette that made her pupils grow hard and bright. She smiled. "All right, Professor.  
I am no sadist. I do not particularly enjoy playing the kidnapper. I agree to your terms."

Willie breathed an audible sigh of relief. He anxiously followed Stokes inside Carolyn's cell.

Josette lagged a little behind, enjoying her revelation. She had never fed on someone so consistently as she had  
Carolyn, not even Willie. As such, her consciousness flowed through the girl's veins, and vice-versa. Such a connection  
could not be severed by hypnosis alone.

Thus, when Carolyn returned to Collinwood, Josette would have an unknowing pair of eyes and ears in work for her.  
Josette would be able to sense at once the varying emotional states of her victim, a sure telltale for what was going on  
around Carolyn—and thus, perhaps around Josette's beloved—during the day when Josette slept, waiting for her cure.

* * *

Paul dropped his suitcases in the hall, standing inside Collinwood's threshold. He was too weary, too benumbed with  
distracted grief to properly take in the house that had been his home seventeen years ago. Instead, he stared grimly at  
Elizabeth, who stood stoically on the staircase.

No words passed between them. Instead, Paul followed her into the drawing room.

She stared out the window, her back to him. Some things in this house never changed.

He sat on the sofa tiredly. His ordeal had left him feeling his age more than he was used to. At last Elizabeth spoke, still  
staring into the distance.

"Well? Remember anything yet?"

A quiet "no" was her answer.

She whipped around then, face composed yet nevertheless full of fire. "I do not find that answer sufficient, Paul. Believe  
you me, once Professor Stokes returns, I will not rest until he has wrung the information out of your insufferable neck."

Paul didn't miss the accusation in her voice. "Now wait a minute, Liz," he said, temper flaring. "I want Carolyn back just  
as much as you do, but I'm not to blame for all this!"

"Sorry if I don't take the word of a man who broke his promise and pursued a relationship with her behind my back!"

Paul flinched at that. His mind had been in a whirl since his sudden awakening in the hospital room, encountering the  
bulldog face of the professor, when last he remembered, he had been gazing at Carolyn showing off her aquamarine  
scarf. And now…now all this.

Maybe it was his fault.

He massaged his closed eyes. "I don't know, Liz, I don't know. Maybe you're right, maybe I shouldn't have gotten involved  
in her life. But seventeen years without my daughter! I was a heartless ass when I left, Liz, and I'm still no saint, but I  
promise you, I'd have done nothing to purposely hurt Carolyn!"

Though Liz frowned, she seemed to catch the sincerity in his voice. She relented…somewhat. "No matter. You know  
 _something,_ though you may not remember it now. But you will, Paul. You have my promise."

* * *

Willie led Carolyn carefully by the hand through the wooden trail back to Collinwood. He murmured softly to her in a  
reassuring voice, yet knew it wasn't necessary: she was locked in a trance now, unreachable by mere human contact.

Her eyes were glassy and empty, and she followed Willie like a sleepwalker.

At last they reached Collinwood's door.

Before entering, Willie turned to Carolyn. His heart ached at her unseeing stare. He smoothed her hair—it would  
probably be the last time he ever did—and patted her cheek. "Don't worry now, Carolyn," he said slowly. "You're safe. See? I told you not to lose hope! What I'm gonna do now is snap my fingers, like Professor Stokes said, and you're gonna slowly come out of that trance you're in. Then you'll just remember walkin' with Barnabas and David in the woods. Okay?"

He coughed uncomfortably at her unchanging expression. He felt silly and worthless once more as he babbled on.

"Ready now? Here I go." He put his fingers together.

* * *

Paul closed his eyes and leaned his head back, an ache forming at the top of his skull. Roger had entered the drawing  
room. And with him came that same affronted, haughty tirade Paul associated so well with his erstwhile brother-in-law.  
Roger was harping on about the past, about Paul's faked death. "I would just like to say I'm disgusted and humiliated  
with you both. Yes, even you, Elizabeth. That you could lie to me this way! That you, Paul, could be so avaricious as to  
sink to that level! I can barely see straight when I think about this appalling"—

A sharp silence interrupted these words. Paul tentatively re-opened his eyes, wondering if Roger's self-righteous rage  
had momentarily deprived him of adequate vocabulary.

Instead he saw Roger staring at the doorway, eyes uncharacteristically wide and mouth hanging open.

Elizabeth went pale, and then lunged forward. "My baby!"

Paul turned.

There stood Willie Loomis holding up a bedraggled, bewildered Carolyn, hair wild and clothes filthy. Her aquamarine  
scarf hung in tatters about her neck.

Paul stood, his expression echoing Roger's.

Liz encircled fierce arms around her daughter, hugging her tightly.

Carolyn seemed to become more aware of her surroundings as her floundering hands found Liz's back. "Mother…  
Mother…." came her trembling, questioning voice, as if waking from a long dream.

Willie shuffled beside the pair, and then cleared his throat to speak. "I, I was doin' some work around the side of the Old  
House when I heard a noise behind me, from, from the woods. I turned around and…." He pointed to Carolyn. "And there  
she was. Just like this."

Liz reached over Carolyn's shoulder to Willie. "Bless you, Willie. Bless you." He took her hand shyly.

Even Roger seemed to forget his enmity toward Willie as he shook his hand heartily, slapping him on the back, before  
turning his attention to his beloved niece, stroking her hair.

Only Paul stood apart from the group.

Only Paul stared at Willie, a storm brewing in the back of his mind.

Something….

Something in the region of his mind that swirled disconcertingly around him in hues of emerald green and gold,  
something blocking out some vital piece of information began to clear, and a key image roughly appeared.

The vague image of Willie.

When Liz and Roger were done doting on her, Paul would take Carolyn in his arms. But as of this moment, studying the  
nervous, twitchy Willie standing awkwardly to the side and then comparing it to the inexplicable image in his mind, Paul  
felt convinced Willie was far more involved in Carolyn's disappearance than as her rescuer.

* * *

Two mornings later, Stokes closed his bedroom door behind him, pausing to button his cuff links. He put on a pleasant  
face as his patron approached him.

"Good morning, Mrs. Stoddard! I was just about to check in on Miss Carolyn, to see if she happened to remember  
anything more with the new day."

"Two amnesiacs in one house," Liz observed wryly. "How convenient for whoever's responsible." Her sharp eyes zeroed  
in on him. "And about the one responsible. Professor, I certainly don't mean to question your methods, but should you be  
spending so much time at the Old House when the answers to the mystery obviously lie in Carolyn and Paul?"

Stokes, as always, was prepared with a smooth, sage answer. "You neglect the bigger picture, Madame. As I explained  
to you at the hospital, environment is key to jogging our friends' memories. But to force said environs on them too  
suddenly might remind them of past trauma, might trigger relapses. Therefore, it is imperative that _I_ familiarize myself  
with the environment first. That way I can scout out any evidence beforehand, not only to gain further knowledge of the  
incident, but to spot any potential violent triggers, so that I can soften these for them, as it were.

"According to the testimony of Barnabas Collins and the boy, Carolyn had pursued her father to the Old House;  
coincidentally, it was outside that establishment where she was found wandering by Willie Loomis. Therefore, following  
the course of action I just outlined for you, the Old House is the primary place I will immerse myself in studying."

"Yes, but how long can that take?"

With a slight condescension that did not sit well with Elizabeth, Stokes took her hand in his, patting it. "Patience,  
Madame, patience. The area surrounding the Old House is vast and full of several types of tracks, both animal and  
human, making it difficult to discern which could be our mysterious attacker's. And as you know, neither Miss DuPres nor Mr. Loomis were witnesses to whatever occurred. Perhaps a few weeks more, possibly a month"—

"A month!" Liz exclaimed.

"—Perhaps even longer. After all, the immediate danger has passed; you have your dear daughter with you again. With  
that in mind, I believe we can afford a more leisurely and—most importantly—a more accurate investigation, don't you  
think?"

Liz shifted uncertainly. She was not sure if she liked this man or not, but there was no doubting his intelligence, and the  
merit of his arguments.

At last she resigned herself. "Very well. You're right. All that's important is I have Carolyn back. Take your time. And if you  
go again to the Old House tonight, please extend my well wishes to Josette, and that I hope to see her at supper  
sometime soon."

"I would be most delighted, Madame." He gave her a stiff, formal incline of the head.

Casting him one last wary look, Liz turned and walked briskly down the hall toward the stairs.

Stokes sauntered down the hall following her path, but stopped at the halfway open door to Barnabas Collins's room.

Mrs. Johnson had left it ajar after straightening his things, and what caught Stokes's eye now was Josette's portrait just  
visible.

Studying it through the crack in the door, Stokes noted how much softer and serene her expression was, yet just as lively,  
just as enthralling, that silky hair curling down her neck, eyes so bright and welcoming.

Anyone who saw Stokes's face at that moment would have agreed that what it lacked in Josette's vibrant beauty it  
matched in fond regard as he gazed at the painting.

* * *

Paul grunted as he shifted the bulky dresser in his room to the left. It was just like Elizabeth to give him the mustiest,  
loneliest room in the house, isolated even from the old servants' quarters: the house's original storage room in the  
1790s.

He had spent his few days in Collinwood preoccupied with two activities: cherishing the few moments alone he could  
spend with Carolyn out of her mother's hawkish eye, and ruminating on Willie, and what he had to do with Carolyn's  
disappearance.

So far, he had come to no grand conclusion.

The rest of the time he spent unpacking and trying to tidy his ugly new quarters. Moving the heavy dresser from where it  
was located too awkwardly near the door, he sneezed as he dislodged a mound of dust.

He was on the brink of charging downstairs demanding new quarters no matter what the fallout from Liz, when he heard  
something slide down the ancient dresser and fall lightly to the ground.

Pushing the dresser all the way to the corner of the room, Paul then crouched down and discovered an old, yellowed pile  
of papers joined by a black ribbon, seemingly some sort of manuscript.

Taking out his handkerchief, he gingerly picked it up and inspected it, and frowned at the strange symbols written on the  
first page. Obviously scrawled in an elegant hand, these symbols alternated between some sort of pagan drawings to  
what appeared to be Latin phrases.

His eyes widened the merest fraction in bewilderment as he read the title, the only phrase in English:

 _INCANTATION TO DESTROY JOSETTE DUPRES_  
 _By Nicholas Blair_


	9. Chapter 9

Josette's treatments began the same week as Carolyn's reappearance. The initial stages involved only minor injections,  
Stokes's primary objective during these fragile first steps to monitor her reactions to the new serum pumping through  
her veins.

So far, she hadn't any negative reaction. On the other hand, she apparently lacked _any_ sort of reaction, which irked and  
frustrated the impatient Josette. However, Stokes was relieved during the first week: had she been showing any  
changes, it would have been too soon, too rapid, and he had a vague idea what would happen if the serum started  
working all at once too quickly, and it wasn't exactly a cheerful picture.

He did not reveal this possibility to his patient.

A week after the first set of treatments, Willie as always was on hand before sunset to help Stokes set up the tests he  
was to administer once Josette awoke.

Stokes observed Josette's servant closely as Willie wiped down a table for Stokes's more delicate equipment. Willie,  
Stokes knew, was connected to Josette in ways the professor could only imagine; a blood pact that tied the reluctant  
Loomis to the woman as a blindly obedient slave.

To be that close to Josette, yet to hate it, was intriguing to Stokes, though he could scarcely admit such a thought to  
himself. However, he couldn't help his curiosity.

"You've had a hard time of it, haven't you, Willie?" The younger man started at the inquiry. Usually the professor was too  
engrossed in his work to acknowledge Willie outside of giving directions or a few perfunctory civilities. Even now he  
threw out his question in an offhand manner, not bothering to look up from the tubes he was pouring various smoking  
liquids into.

Willie couldn't know how frighteningly aware Stokes was at all times beneath his blandly fatigued façade.

Willie cleared his throat awkwardly before answering. "You mean, me bein' Josette's…helper and all? Um, erm, I, I  
guess so. Yeah, it ain't been real easy." He was unsure how much he should confide in Stokes, unsure of the  
professor's true motives in this unique situation.

Stokes was no help, providing no emotional cues. His only reaction was a raised eyebrow as his eyes still focused on  
the mixed liquids in the tube he busied himself tapping. However, as tired and uninterested as his voice was, his next  
words were still personal, still probing. "How do you feel about your mistress, Willie? Do you hate her, pity her? Feel  
strangely enthralled by her?"

Maybe it was that very lack of scrutiny in his questions that put Willie more at ease, or maybe the pure psychological relief  
for Willie of not having to hide who he was now, who _she_ was—either way, Willie felt himself suddenly anxious to  
unburden himself. He twisted the washrag in his hands as his tongue loosened.

"Some, sometimes it's all three. Sometimes it's _like_ she's three different people. Sometimes she's horrible, just awful,  
more like an animal then a person. When she's like that she's unbearable, like she almost enjoys hurting people. Other  
times she's—she's so sad, you know? So lost in this kind of…kind of…."

"Gloom?" Stokes softly interjected. Willie didn't notice the mist in the other man's voice.

"Yeah! Yeah, kind of in a gloom, or in some depressed sort of trance. Then that's when I really feel sorry for her. I…I ain't  
sure how she turned into…." He swallowed. "Into what she is right now, but I can guarantee she didn't ask for it. And  
yeah…sometimes…sometimes she seems so…so _sweet_ and _gentle_ , that I can't help but kind of like her." He shrugged,  
a little abashed at all he'd just revealed. "So, yeah. I guess I kinda run the gamut toward how I feel about her."

Too busy staring at his feet, Wille couldn't see how during his description of her character Stokes' expression grew  
darkly melancholy, his eyes wandering away from the precious fluid in the test tube.

The professor cleared his own throat as he addressed Willie again. "I can sympathize with your predicament, Willie.  
You're good to stand by her. As I said, it can't have been easy for you. I know you lost a friend, a Jason McGuire, correct?"  
Willie's voice was distant, muffled. "Yeah. Jason."

Stokes' curiosity turned strangely morbid. "You were even forced to bury him, weren't you?"

For the first time he looked at Willie. The man's head was down. Stokes could barely make out his tremulous, "Yeah.

Took him to an abandoned spot on the outskirts of Eagle Hill, by the One-Way sign on the road. Couldn't even mark the  
grave properly. I just grabbed a big rock and stuck it there…so he'd have…have something. He…he was a good guy, in a  
way."

He was surprised when Stokes laid a hand on his shoulder, a familiar gesture out of character for the usually  
supercilious man of science. "Hopefully your suffering won't go on much longer, Willie. Soon, God willing, both you and  
Miss DuPres will be free again."

* * *

Thankfully for the sake of the treatments and Josette's peace of mind, the injections began rapidly taking effect over the  
next two weeks.

The return of warmth into her veins, red into her too-porcelain white cheeks, that faint flutter in her chest, worked magic  
upon her character.

The terrorizing animal that would lash out from within her that Willie spoke of with such dread receded almost entirely. In  
its place a charming, youthful girl of twenty tentatively stepped just outside the shadows, yearning for life, real life again.  
Each night after the treatments, a wild giddiness would seize her. She'd happily take Stokes's hand in her formerly ice cold  
one, now pulsating with heat, and invite him out of the basement into the Old House's sumptuous dining room.

For soon after the injections hunger and thirst slowly returned to Josette; a hunger and thirst for normal, earthy, human  
food. While these cravings did not supplant her need for blood, it was enough to mark her progress as splendid, and  
she was eager to satisfy herself. Willie soon added chef to his resume, and Josette delighted in treating Stokes as her  
honored guest, sharing bottles of imported wine that had been stashed away along with the Collins family fortune  
hidden behind the basement walls two centuries ago.

She came to admire and trust Stokes, respecting his intelligence not just where science was concerned—an arena that  
had always left Josette a trifle baffled—but in culture and history as well. Not grasping the depths of how strong his  
hypnosis on Carolyn was, Josette did not want to risk resuming her friendship with the young woman quite yet for fear of  
triggering her memory; therefore, Josette started relying on Stokes, who knew her secret, to fill her in on events that had  
passed while she slept in her coffin before her liberation.

For Stokes, these moments were some of the richest, happiest in his life.

Eliot Stokes was born and bred a scholar. He had dabbled in casual relationships in his youth with bookish young  
women working in his various fields of study, yet always there was something lacking. And when he felt that lack, he  
would quietly turn away from the woman to his studies. His obsession with the possibilities of curing ancient  
superstitions though science, and solving the riddles of history through his own testable methods, satisfied him enough.  
Satisfied him, but never set him aflame. He had allowed very little into his life that was not related to his academic  
interests: science, history, the occult.

And now he had met a woman who embodied all these areas of intellectual pursuit, embodied them in a shroud of  
grace, beauty, and a mystifying and intense charm, a haunted, hunted air hovering over her delicate features and deep  
eyes.

He was under her thrall, but unlike Willie, he was all too willing to be there.

At the end of the third week of her treatments, Josette prettily toasted the professor, her crystalline laughter and dreamy  
smile causing the older man to breathe heavily as he took her in.

"Professor," she said sweetly, "I cannot thank you enough, dear man. I feel a new woman! A completely new woman!"  
She threw her head back recklessly, her laughter bordering on the hysterical side of happiness; yet it was so artlessly  
youthful Stokes deliberately took no notice.

"You've been a most delightful patient, Madame," he returned graciously, watching her closely over his glass of Pinot  
Blanc.

She whipped forward suddenly in her seat, and his breath caught as her warm little hand found his. Josette's voice was  
breathless and quick. "Professor, how long do you think until I can see the sunrise?"

Stokes thought a moment, calculating in his mind. "Difficult to say, Josette. Your progress has been most remarkable,  
better than anything I anticipated."

"So it will be soon?" She couldn't keep the high, eager note out of her voice.

"We wouldn't want to move things along too hastily." Seeing a vague puzzled look cross her face, he quickly added, "It's  
best in these situations, of course, to keep on a strict schedule."

"Pooh," she pouted, leaning back.

He chuckled. "You are charming even when sulking, my dear. But as I said, your progress is wonderful. I doubt you will  
have to wait too long till you see the day again."

He almost melted at the tender countenance staring back at him. "If not for you, I would never even dream of seeing the  
sun again. You remarkable, remarkable man." Seemingly in some sort of gentle trance, she stood and informed him  
she would be back in a moment. She glided into the drawing room. Her heard her footsteps disappear downstairs into  
the basement.

She returned with a great relic: a long, sturdy black cane with a brilliant wolf's head made of silver that curved into a  
handle.

Josette stared at it reverentially, holding it up in both hands as a devotee does a sacred sacrifice to its pagan god.  
After taking in its craftsmanship, Josette stroked it lovingly as she spoke. "This once belonged to someone I loved  
beyond the power of words to express, Professor." Her low, sleepy voice almost put Stokes himself in a trance.  
"Someone I lost long ago. I have kept it beside me in my coffin all these years, slept with it each day even after Willie  
freed me." She lifted her eyes to the window, where the horizon stretched before her in inky blackness. "The day I see the  
sun rise over the sea again, is the day I present this cane to the one I love now."

She locked melancholy yet somehow ecstatic eyes on the professor, her smile achingly lovely.

Stokes alternated staring greedily at the cane and her, reflecting her ecstasy in his own pounding heart.

* * *

To Elizabeth's quiet dismay, Paul and Carolyn grew only closer in their mutual trauma-induced amnesia. Thanks to  
Carolyn's constant entreaties, Elizabeth eventually reached a tentative peace with her truant husband while he stayed  
under her roof, just lenient enough to allow Paul time alone with his daughter.

Paul observed his girl closely. He was, to be expected, doubly protective of her now. But also he could not let go of his  
obsession with the faint but—to his mind—vital images of Willie that drifted through his memory whenever he thought of

Carolyn and her disappearance.

Yet Carolyn showed no fright, no shadow of uncertainty when the handyman was mentioned.

However—

There was a moment.

A moment when Elizabeth, Barnabas, or someone happened to mention Josette's name.

And under Paul's quick eyes he saw the briefest shudder wrack her frame, her face go white. Then it was gone. But it  
was enough.

More images sped around him. Josette. Willie. The Old House.

One or all of them were implicated in this somehow.

And so Paul ruminated.

Yet on one brisk day as they walked back from another impromptu shopping binge, Paul and Carolyn were laughing  
together—a sound neither of them had hoped to ever hear from the other again.

Paul was regaling Carolyn with old town gossip from when he had been a resident in Collinsport. Carolyn spoke through  
her laughter as they entered Collins ground. "You really mean to say the bartender didn't even see the sailor drinking  
from the tap?"

" 'Course not! They were _both_ drunk!"

A meek, hopeful, "H-hi, Carolyn," interrupted their laughter. "Mr. Stoddard."

Paul stiffened and he slit his eyes at the young man before them, whose hands were stuffed rigidly in the pockets of his  
leather jacket as he stared fondly at Carolyn.

Her smile was wide and welcoming. "Hi, Willie! What brings you out here?"

He shrugged as Paul inwardly raged at the tender eyes roving over Carolyn's face. "N-nothin'. Just, just figured I might  
come out for a walk since Josette ain't got nothin' for me to do right now." He shuffled his feet as he cleared his throat,  
glancing toward Collinwood. "B-Barnabas, he, he told me you were shopping, and so I thought I might come out and  
meet you to…." He swallowed. Then he braced himself and looked at her once more. "To see how you're doing now that  
you're back."

Carolyn's expression was so invitingly gentle, obviously touched at his concern, that Willie trembled where he stood. But  
a sharp bark to her left dispelled any romantic illusion.

"Dammit, Loomis, what business is it of yours? You might fool them, but you don't fool me! You haven't changed. Stay the  
hell away from my daughter and get back to the Old House."

Paul's fierce look brooked no room for argument.

Willie paled. He looked sadly at Carolyn. Then with hunched shoulders he slunk away down the path.

Carolyn turned perplexed to her father, mouth agape. She punched him in the shoulder, cross. "Jeez, Dad! What the hell  
was that? Willie happened to save my life, remember?"

Grinding his teeth, Paul answered, "I wouldn't be so sure." Unconsciously, he fingered a paper folded deep in his coat  
pocket, taken from a much bigger stack.

He didn't know what made him hold onto the old manuscript, but nonetheless the eerie lettering "INCANTATION TO  
DESTROY JOSETTE DUPRES" burned into his fingertips as his eyes followed Willie's retreating form down the hill.

* * *

At last the day came, five weeks after the first injection, when Josette saw the sun rise over the calm sea.  
Stokes and Willie waited with bated breath as dawn approached, both men watching her warily.

She stood straight and still, her back to them, never looking away from that distant point on the horizon. She waited,  
waited, waited for the first rays of light to touch the sky.

Seeing her thus was like gazing at a statue. Yet she was very much alive, very much impatient to prove that she was  
alive.

And the first rays came. They bathed her face in warmth, and she breathed them in, leaning her head back, eyes closed  
and soft lips parted.

She had never looked so beautiful.

When Stokes and Willie could recover from the sight of her unearthly beauty highlighted by golden sunlight, they huddled  
around her, checking her pulse, bombarding her with questions, monitoring her reactions.

At last Josette lazily opened her eyes, her expression unfathomable as she gazed at the professor.

"I am almost free," she whispered through smiling lips.

Yet Stokes was protective. He waited another three days before allowing her outside, keeping her under close  
observation.

She never complained.

On the fourth day, a Saturday, she surprised Barnabas Collins by calling on him on a briskly chilly but still sunny  
afternoon. Her face more wild and joyful than he'd ever seen, she invited him for a walk on the beach.  
He watched her with happy confusion as she reveled in the sand beneath her bare feet, her slippers in the hand not  
looped through Barnabas's arm.

"I've never seen you so well, Josette," he said.

"I've never _felt_ so well, Barnabas!" She laughed and kissed him on the cheek, squeezing his arm as she rested her head  
on his shoulder. "Never felt so free, so bold."

"I hope you never feel any other way." He kissed her on the top of the head. "Any particular reason for such glee, little  
fellow?"

She shrugged carelessly. "Just happy I could get away for the day and see you, beloved man."

Her answer immediately warmed him to the core. "You know, I do believe things have taken a turn for the better around  
here, I really do. First we get Carolyn back safe and sound, and now it seems her attacker has ceased its aggressions in  
the area." He pulled her close to him, rubbing her back. "Let's hope it stays that way."

He was perplexed at the eerie vehemence in his love's voice. "It will. It _has_ to. I'm sure of it." She stared ahead with hard  
eyes.

Eager to keep her in her happy mood, he readily agreed. "Yes. Yes, it has to."

He stopped her then, taking her hands in his. "My dear, what with our mutual reticence and the awful recent events, you  
and I haven't had a real chance to talk…well, to talk about _us_. After nearly losing Carolyn I've come to appreciate more the  
people in my life." He tilted her chin back so that he could stare directly into those mesmerizing eyes. "I simply wanted to  
let you know how much I cherish you, love you. Believe me, Josette, when I say that will never change. Never."

She shivered in his hold, soaking in the words coming out of that rich velvety voice. She felt hot tears sting her eyes, and  
she was bursting with happiness.

"I feel the same, my darling," she was just able to whisper. Then quickly shifting moods again, she squeezed his hand  
and pulled it toward the grass. "Come! I have something I want to give you!"

Laughing girlishly, she pulled the questioning Barnabas to the Old House, pertly hushing his queries. "Wait a moment,  
nosy, and you will see!"

She left him standing cheerfully nonplussed on the Old House's wide porch as she rushed inside.

Returning, she held her hands coyly behind her back. Her eyes were bright pinpoints focused on her paramour. "I found  
it while cleaning downstairs recently. I am giving it to you."

Barnabas gasped at what she presented to him, recognizing it instantly from descriptions in the Collins family papers  
and the original Josette's journal. "My namesake's walking stick!"

He held the cane to the sun, inspecting it with shocked admiration as the light glinted off the wolf's shining head.

"Brilliant! It's absolutely brilliant! Oh, Josette, you have no idea how I used to pretend I was the original Barnabas when I  
was little, and how urgently I wanted this stick." His smile faded as a glazed look entered his eyes. "Strange," he  
whispered, "I…I honestly feel like I've held this before." He blinked, returning from whatever distant place he had  
stumbled into. He suddenly pulled her to him in a fierce kiss. "I shall never let it leave my side. Never."

"Nor shall I," Josette answered.

They kissed again.

From far down the path, unseen by the couple, Eliot Stokes halted.

He saw Josette in Barnabas's embrace. He saw the kiss.

But what he saw most of all was the cane in Barnabas's hand. The tutor gripped it as naturally if it were simply an  
extension of his hand, as if it truly belonged there, as if he had held it many, many times before.

What once was warm and new but a few hours ago in Stokes's chest turned cold and dark and old as sin.

* * *

Late into the same night, Jason McGuire's body lay still buried beneath the ground outside Eagle Hill cemetery, by an  
abandoned road near a One-Way sign. The air was thick there and unpleasantly murky, the ground unsteady, the grass  
yellow and dry.

Stokes's footsteps were leaden, slow, and decided as he approached the spot Willie had described to him. He found the  
telltale rock.

His face was as grave and cold as Jason's makeshift tombstone.

Stokes held in his hand a thick book that looked no younger than the earth on which he stood.

He methodically opened the pages and stopped at a section in the middle.

The language he read out in his sonorous baritone was not unlike that written in the manuscript discovered by Paul  
Stoddard.

He chanted for almost a full fifteen minutes before he felt it.

The ground beneath Jason McGuire's unmarked grave began to shake.


	10. Chapter 10

The following morning Josette entered the basement humming an old French ditty about love and folly.

She had spent her first night in bed in almost two centuries.

 _In bed!_ She still felt the imprint of the pillow on her cheek, the malleable mattress beneath her and warmth from the  
blankets around her. The sweet smell of jasmine that still clung mysteriously to her bed sheets, lo these many, many  
years.

She sneered happily at the sight of her coffin. However, she raised a perplexed eyebrow at the stiff back of Eliot Stokes,  
busying himself with his equipment on the table. Usually he greeted her with every suave civility. Now, there was nothing  
but silence and that stiff back.

"Good morning?" Josette offered in a singsong, questioning voice.

A long pause, then a frosty "good morning" in return. He still did not turn.

Full of too many whirling, merry preoccupations to worry herself too much about the professor's chilled attitude, Josette  
gracefully lounged in the armchair Willie had placed in the basement for Josette's use during the experiments, his  
mistress now stretching her limbs luxuriantly like a cat.

"Ah, Professor! What unappreciated bliss it is to sleep at night like the rest of the world, in my own bed! You know,  
Barnabas, Willie, and I did quite the job restoring the rooms—it's just how I kept it when I first arrived in America."

"When you were engaged to the original Barnabas Collins," Stokes interposed mechanically.

"Yes," she whispered out of smiling lips, eyes wandering dreamily to the ceiling.

She jumped as Stokes slammed a beaker down on the table, narrowly escaping shattering it. Startled, she turned and  
studied him.

He was leaning forward on both hands against the table, staring down doggedly, his breathing ragged. She couldn't see  
his face.

"Professor?"  
"What game do you think you are playing, mademoiselle?"

She frowned. "Game? What game? Explain yourself at once, Professor! Your mood today is just"—

"The game I am referring to," he said with icy precision, "Is the one you are playing with the _current_ Barnabas Collins." He whipped around, staring at her with fiery accusation. "Do not think me an imbecile, Josette. I have seen your dead  
fiancé's portrait above the mantelpiece upstairs, like a shrine. What, do you think you can replace him with a newer  
model?"

A lesser man, a man less wounded and frenzied, would have shrank from the sight of Josette uncoiling herself from the  
chair and facing him. Her eyes were poison.

The serpentine tone of metal was back in her voice. "Do not dare to speak of Barnabas Collins— _either_ Barnabas Collins  
—in such a crude manner ever again. I only spare your life now in tribute to the services you've rendered me. But that  
gives you no right to question my motives, or make it your business what I do, _who I see_ , in my personal life.  
Understood?" She quivered with rage, clenching her fists.

Stokes did not flinch. His temper merely rose. "Forgive me, mademoiselle, but it _is_ my business! Everything to do with  
you is my business."

She snorted disbelievingly. "What gall! Why, because I'm your pet project? You are on the brink of curing me of my  
affliction for good, and that gives you the right to order me about as if I were a prized laboratory mouse?"

For once Stokes stammered, at a loss. "No. No! I…I don't mean it in that way. What I mean is…your…your movements  
concern me because…." He swallowed, trying to rule the emotions he knew were naked in his face. "Because I care." He  
looked pained, as if the confession had been surgically removed from him.

Josette stared at him with her wide magnificent eyes, her lips parted in surprise.

Then she laughed harshly. "Oh, Professor! Don't tell me you fancy yours truly as anything more than a patient. Oh, you  
poor, delusional man. Of course I suspected you of having less than purely detached, scientific thoughts about me, but I  
assumed it was just friendly flirtation!"

"Am I really so amusing?" He asked in a low voice.

She pursed her lips, studying him once more. "Don't be so gauche, Professor. I admire you very much as a great mind,  
and I appreciate, truly appreciate all you've done for me, truly. Why, as I've said before, I'm a new woman now, aren't I? All  
thanks to you."

"That could change at any moment," came the quiet reply.

Josette stiffened, narrowing her eyes. This time Stokes betrayed no emotion, none.

She gritted her teeth and growled. She grabbed him by his tie, shaking him. "Threaten me, will you? You miserable old  
fool. I could end you in an instant if I so desired, I do retain that much 'supernatural power', as you so call it." She  
released him, chuckling darkly as she took him in. "How pathetic you are, trying to intimidate me. As if you could. You  
have so little power and control over me you are but a worm beneath my heel. That's what you are, Professor. And don't  
you ever forget it. And don't," she held up one exquisitely shaped finger. "Don't ever forget the difference between you—  
tired, old, _ridiculous_ as you are—and Barnabas Collins is a gap as wide as the sky."

The beast had not fully sheathed its claws after all.

She looked at him. He was shattered, shaking, his eyes glassy and indescribable.

And she looked at the beakers on the table.

She swore under her breath and massaged her forehead.

When she lifted her head again it was as if the animal hatred had been erased by magic. The enchantingly grateful girl  
was back again, imploring him with her melting eyes.

"Dear, dear Professor," she spoke in the sweetest tones man had ever heard. A hand as soft as a fluttering butterfly  
touched his arm. Her chin trembled almost unperceptively—almost. "Forgive me. Oh, do forgive me! I…I can't even  
guess what came over me." With the unique artlessness that excused such maudlin gestures, she wrung her hands as  
she glanced sadly about her. "I…I suppose I'm not nearly as cured of my evil as I thought. Sometimes…sometimes I still  
feel it grip me until I cannot resist its lure. Oh, _dear_ man," that delicate hand squeezed his arm. "Forget what I have said,  
and let us be friends again."

She was so imploringly vulnerable as she looked up at him with her beseeching doe eyes that any man, lesser or not,  
would have forgiven and forgotten at once.

Professor Timothy Eliot Stokes was not any man.

Yet his voice, if not his expression, gentled as he stared at anything but directly into her eyes. "Friends again, Josette."  
He turned back to the table.

He didn't see the satisfied curl of her upper lip as she sat back down.

And she didn't see how hard his eyes were. She didn't see how the hand holding the syringe shook.

* * *

That evening, Barnabas joined Liz and Roger for an after-dinner drink in the drawing room at Collinwood.

It was a lazy evening, the kind that rolled out satisfactorily with the sunset, with each party in easy, garrulous moods.

They were helped by their surprisingly happy topic: young David's progress.

"Really, Barnabas," Elizabeth said smiling from her armchair, "You've done absolute wonders with your charge."  
"Yes," Roger assented, filling Barnabas's glass for him. "Even I have to admit the boy's become almost tolerable these  
days."

"Now, really, Roger," Liz scolded.

"I know, I know. But you must admit in the past our David was a churlish, wild devil on his best days. Yet," he shrugged, "I  
haven't heard a word in weeks about Stefan, and David's even gotten some color in those wan cheeks of his."

"Well, yes, you know," Barnabas said humbly, "That's only because I'm such a natural outdoorsman and make him learn  
half his lessons out in the open fields. With the coming winter weather, I should probably curtail that policy just a bit."

"Nonsense!" Roger slapped him on his shoulder. "Keep up whatever it is you're doing! You're working marvels with the  
boy."

Barnabas bit his tongue before he could point out that the best way to make David even better adjusted would be if  
Roger himself took some responsibility for the boy. Instead, Barnabas changed the subject, turning to Liz.

He lowered his voice with his sensitive question. "Speaking of burgeoning relationships, Liz, if you don't mind my asking,  
how do you feel about"—

"Paul's burgeoning relationship with our daughter?" Liz finished for him wearily. She sighed and shifted in her seat,  
crossing her leg over her knee as she stared at some distant point to her side. "I simply don't know what to make of Paul  
anymore. I had long wrapped my head around the idea he was a shallow, good-for-nothing cheat, and now this." She  
squinted, an assessing gleam in her eyes. "I never thought I'd say this, but I actually believe he genuinely cares for  
Carolyn, and genuinely wants to make things up to her."

"However," Roger added in a suspicious vein, "Let us not forget how strangely he's been acting since her return."

Barnabas frowned. "How so?"

Roger smirked. "I don't suppose you'd have noticed, seeing as your attention these days seems to be divided between  
improving my son and improving your relations with a certain lovely young neighbor on the grounds, but our Paul has  
become a bit of a shut-in up in his room when he's not spending time with his daughter."

Liz nodded glumly. "Yes. He sits for hours at a time up there. Sometimes I hear him pacing, and mumbling something  
under his breath—almost reciting something, I should say. Notice he skipped dinner? My suspicion is he's up there  
doing so even now."

"Have you asked him about it?" Barnabas inquired.

"Oh, yes. He just brushes me off with some excuse about trying to sort out some of his bills, keeping track of the  
numbers out loud."

"Wouldn't surprise me," Roger mumbled into his glass. "That man's always been drowning in debt."

Mrs. Johnson tapped on the door, and at Elizabeth's summons peeked in. She was swallowing a coy grin. "Miss DuPres  
is here to visit." She exchanged a knowing glance with Elizabeth, who in turn gave same to Roger.

Then they all glanced at the sheepish Barnabas.

"Show her in, Mrs. Johnson," Liz said through her own small smile.

The vigor of rosy red upon her cheeks, Josette stepped with lively, sure grace into the room, beaming graciously to all  
assembled. "Elizabeth, Roger! I hope I do not intrude?" She lowered her eyelids as she looked sideways at Barnabas.

She murmured his name in tender acknowledgement.

Brother and sister agreed in silent, mutual amusement that this was their cue to exit.

Liz took Roger's hand he offered her as she stood. "You intrude not at all, Josette," Liz assured her. "However, Roger and  
I need to go over the accounts in his office. If you'll excuse us, I'm sure Barnabas wouldn't mind entertaining you in our  
absence."

Casting a knowing, joking glance at the slightly rueful tutor, Roger and Elizabeth made their goodbyes and withdrew.  
Josette sauntered with kittenish coquetry toward her love where he stood by the fireplace. She ran a fond hand over his  
cane he was faithfully holding on to. "I see you meant what you said about keeping this with you always."

"I always keep my word," Barnabas whispered huskily in her ear. He massaged the back of her neck.

She closed her eyes as she leaned her head back, practically purring. "Good. I like a man I can trust."

"Josette," Barnabas said, his tone energetic and excited like a young boy's. "Why don't we go somewhere tomorrow?

Just you and me? Or maybe take a long weekend and go to Boston?"

Josette looked up at him in surprise. "Really?"

"Yes, what's stopping us?"

At that, Josette bit her lip as her eyes darted about the room. She thought. Why not? But what if—no, she was doing far  
too well to fear any setback. Yes? However, maybe she _shouldn't_ stray too far away from the professor and her coffin, just on the small chance something _did_ go slightly wrong. And yet—

Josette looked once more into Barnabas's face. That was all she needed to decide.

"Yes," she smiled.

He returned her smile as he bent down to meet her kiss.

But then she thoughtlessly cast her eyes down to her hand still stroking his cane.

And a terror unlike the many harrowing frights she had experienced before shot through her.

She gasped and turned away with jarring speed, smothering her hand in her sweater's sleeve.

"Josette!" Barnabas said in alarm. "Darling, what is it?"

Her voice shook, and she would not face him. "Nothing. Nothing. Nothing, nothing at all, Barnabas. My love, my sweet. I…  
I'm not feeling well, that is all. I…I have to go now!" Her next words burst out in a heart-wrenching sob. "Please don't  
follow me!"

She tore away from him and ran out of the drawing room, out of the house, leaving the door open, where the harsh night  
wind blew it banging against the wall.

"Josette!" Barnabas raced to the doorway, watching her retreat. "Josette!"

* * *

Willie was dusting out some of the cobwebs in the area by Josette's now neglected coffin when he heard the basement  
door fly open above, and heard the sickly sound of panting breath. "Willie!" a thin, scratchy voice called.

Perplexed, Willie advanced toward the stairs, where uneven, clumsy steps were quick descending.

He cried out at the figure that reached the bottom.

A cadaverous looking old woman, hair tangled and white, face wrinkled and eyes yellow, stared at him out of Josette's  
clothing.

"Willie," she croaked out frailly, her dull eyes brimming with tears. Shaking, apparently requiring all her strength, she held  
up her hand with the ruby ring on the now withered, unrecognizable finger. Her voice was twisted with age. "I…I noticed  
my hand…."

Willie rushed toward her, first to support her, then unwillingly recoiling from the sight of her. "Jo…Josette?" Tears stung  
his own panicked eyes. "What the hell happened to you?"

She shook the yellowing, age-spotted head. "I don't know."

Closer to her now, Willie recoiled anew as he saw that her fangs were out, apparently out of her control. She suddenly  
clutched at his shirt collar helplessly.

"Save me, Willie. Save me!"

"How…how?"

Her watery, unfocused eyes widened. "Blood!" She hissed. "Oh, how I have never needed blood more than I need it now!  
Willie, raid a blood bank if you must, but _get me all the blood you can find."_

Whether because her vampiric nature had reasserted itself more strongly than ever, tightening her psychic grip on her  
slave, or whether it was Willie's own empathy for the broken elderly visage before him, he nodded instantly. "Yeah. Yeah.

I'll go do that. Right now."

"HURRY!"

Without another word he sped upstairs, breathing heavily, almost as frenzied as his mistress.

For a number of agonizing minutes, Josette tiredly roamed about the cold, hidden home of her coffin, groaning to herself  
as she felt her renewed mortal life force slip away as she grew more decrepit and reverted more rapidly back into an  
elderly parody of a vampire. "Why, why….?" She asked herself in monotonous intervals, more heartbreaking than if she  
had sobbed openly.

At last a voice on the stairs answered her. "Because I willed it so."

As quickly as she could in her altered state, Josette turned to see Professor Stokes staring down at her with grim  
stoicism, hand behind his back like a grotesque imitation of a butler.

"You," she snarled, suddenly understanding. She held up her aged hands. "You have done this to me!"

"Yes," he answered matter-of-factly, calmly descending the stairs. He faced her. "I have."

"Why?" She curled her emaciated, bony fingers, baring them as she would have claws.

Josette finally saw the true extent of his misery, painted plainly in the eyes that met hers. "I am not a man who is easily  
swayed emotionally. But when I am, Madame..." She thought she saw tears. His voice was thick. "When I am, I am  
poisoned for good. So I have discovered. I loved you with all the power there is in me to love. Yet as an 'old, ridiculous'  
man, I soon found out how little you truly valued me. How little you comprehended my abilities to destroy you."

All at once he whipped out from behind his back a cross.

It was too much. Coupled with her frailty, Josette cried out, covering her eyes in vein as she cowered from the sight.  
He advanced perseveringly until she backed up against her coffin. "Get inside," the hollow voice ordered her.

She had no choice but to comply.

He loomed over her, one hand holding the cross to her face, the other on the coffin's lid. "For all I want to, I cannot kill you.

Old and ridiculous as you now are, the hold you have over my heart still beats. I will chain you here again, Josette  
DuPres. Once more you will be deprived of sunlight. Once more you will be deprived of your Barnabas." That name came  
out chokingly from the painful, hateful emotions it evoked in the professor. With tired finality in his slow movements,

Stokes closed the lid over Josette's screams.


	11. Chapter 11

Carolyn was seized by a terrible sense of disquiet.

She shivered in the armchair by her window, her magazine slipping neglected to the floor.

Ever since her mysterious return to Collinwood she'd been experiencing with increasing frequency almost out-of-body  
sensations, like some stranger's hand was reaching into her ribcage and squeezing her heart, until Carolyn's emotions  
weren't hers, but some invisible interloper's.

When she told Professor Stokes about these random occurrences during one of their sessions, in his usual blandly  
noncommittal way he assured her they were nothing more than a common side effect of trauma. He told her to pay these  
episodes no mind.

Yet given Carolyn's inquisitive nature, that was nearly an impossible task.

Peculiarly enough, she couldn't exactly say they were unpleasant experiences most of the time—on the contrary, lately  
she'd been feeling nothing but strong surges of euphoria and a queer hopefulness.

That is, until now.

Until now, as she rubbed her arms confusedly while terror, heartbreak, and exhaustion pounded in her heart, almost  
taking her over.

She was on the verge of calling out for help when a movement beneath her window caught her attention, a movement  
accompanied by a panicked, heavy breathing.

Peeking out her curtain, she spotted Willie Loomis below running by, panting. She inhaled sharply when she saw the  
expression on his face: it exactly mimicked the distraught anguish she was inexplicably feeling herself.

Willie….

Panic….

 _The Old House._

Carolyn's lips straightened into a hard line as she grabbed a sweater and ran out the door. Willie Loomis knew  
something. And tonight, hell or high water, so would she.

* * *

Willie swore under his breath as he stumbled over his feet on Eagle Hill, not stopping as he straightened himself out  
and quickened his pace. The hospital was only a half-mile from the cemetery. Goddammit, why did the stupid car have to  
be at the shop on this of all nights?

His head pounded in rhythm to his feet.

He halted in confusion as he heard rapid steps behind him, heard a familiar voice call out.

"Willie! Stop!"

" _Carolyn_?" He couldn't keep the exasperation out of his voice. "What the hell are you doin'?"

They both hunched over to catch their breaths. She regained composure enough to look suitably accusing. "No, what are  
 _you_ doing, Willie? I saw you running like a mad man out my window."

Willie wiped the perspiration from his upper lip as he looked away, thinking. "Uh, running an errand for Josette. Which I  
need to do right now. I've gotta go, Carolyn."

 _"No."_ She grabbed his coat sleeve as he turned away, stopping him. "If it's just an errand, why are you running like some  
bat out of hell with that frantic look on your face? Something's going on, Willie! Something to do with Josette, something  
do with me, something do with these attacks, and you're telling me what it all is _right now_."

"Dammit, Carolyn!" He tried pulling his arm away. "Stop talking crazy! Just go on home!" In their struggle they edged  
nearer Eagle Hill Cemetery, backing into the gate. "Just, just, get on home!"

"No!" Her determined blue eyes locked with his desperate ones.

"Carolyn"—he entreated but was cut short by a sound that made both of them pale.

Slow, heavy footsteps approached from down the hill.

Turning their heads slowly at the same time, Willie and Carolyn peered into the darkening day at the figure making his  
way up the steep climb.

Carolyn screamed. Willie blanched.

It was a long, horrible moment before he found his voice. _"Jason?"_

Jason McGuire stood unsteadily before them. His skin was a cadaverous white, bluish around the eyes and mouth.

Maggots and worms protruded from various scabs that mottled his face and neck. His eyes were a bilious yellow. His  
clothes were worn and caked in dirt.

His unvarying expression and odor reeked of death, yet it was the rotting brown teeth that appeared in his familiar smirk  
and the unnaturally stiff movements of his limbs that truly hit home for the two before him that Jason McGuire was now—  
against all rules of logic and humanity—a member of—of, of what? The…shit, the walking dead?

Jesus, they both thought simultaneously.

They shivered as he finally spoke. _"Hello, Willie. Miss Carolyn,"_ the voice was deeper, more hollow than they  
remembered: as if it came from below, from the very depths of the earth.

Each pale hand with blackened nails landed firmly on their shoulders. "You're coming with me."

Only Carolyn could find her voice now. "What…what happened to you? Where are you taking us?"

That mechanical grin was her only answer as with supernatural power he jerked both of them toward the cemetery's  
gates.

"In here? Why are you taking us in here?"

Both cried out as he shoved them inside, banging the gate shut behind him.

Confronted with his awful appearance so close—eyes bulging, dark blue lips snarling—Willie and Carolyn, clutching  
onto each other, backed away as he advanced. They walked backward for what seemed hours through the abandoned  
cemetery, almost tripping over gravestones, their undead assailant ever pursuant.

At last, Jason slowly extended his rotting arm and pointed behind them.

They turned, finding themselves at the entrance to the ostentatiously isolated and sizable Collins family crypt.  
Jason nodded with grim delight at their questioning glances. They were forced to enter as Jason pushed open the gate.  
Inside, Willie balked as Jason methodically performed the same motions his ex-partner had months ago: pulling the  
stone lion's ring, tapping on the wall three times, and then standing back as the secret passage swung open. Carolyn  
gasped at this proof of the legendary secret room's existence.

Jason gestured for them to enter.

Without Josette's coffin inside, the small square area appeared remarkably non-descript and barren, save for candles in  
the corners.

Once inside, Jason stood blocking the entrance, sneering down at his prisoners. It was only then that Willie noticed the  
wheelbarrow full of bricks beside the undead Irishman, just outside the secret room's opening.  
Swallowing, Willie pointed to the pile, his question unable to escape his lips but obvious on his face.

Jason answered in the affirmative. "I will seal you here. There shall be no escape."

Carolyn cried out. Willie threw his arms around her shoulders, pulling her close. He tried pleading with Jason.  
"How…how could you do this to us? To me? We…we were friends…."

The slow awakening of his human self showed in Jason's yellow eyes, looking out in pain and anger. "You betrayed our  
friendship, Willie, with that whore from hell. The professor woke me to wreak revenge on you and her, my destroyers."

"The professor?" Carolyn asked in alarm. "Professor Stokes? And who's this 'hell whore', Josette?"

In a chilling imitation of his former mocking ways, Jason inclined his head as his brown smile widened. "Astute as  
always, Miss Stoddard. The professor predicted you, Willie, would try interfering with his plans for Miss DuPres, and so  
summoned me to make sure you'd keep away for good. The young Miss Stoddard's presence is nothing more than a  
happy coincidence."

Willie, stunned from learning of Stokes' betrayal and of their fate, could only shake his head as he tried pleading for their  
lives once more. "Jason," he rasped, "Jason…we're pals…."

Jason grimaced and shivered, dropping for the slightest of moments his lifeless cruelty as a sort of paternal sorrow  
wrinkled his cold flesh. He shook off the feeling, and fury took its place. "GOODBYE, WILLIE."

Carolyn and Willie broke out at once in hysterical begging as Jason disappeared from sight as the wall swung shut.

Then they were lost in darkness as they listened in terror to Jason stacking the bricks on the other side of the wall.

* * *

Stokes closed the basement door behind him as he entered the Old House's drawing room, halting to release a  
shuddering breath. He willed his soul away from terror and back to clinical detachment. _What's done is done_. He had  
recited the incantation to release Jason, setting him on Willie's path. And Josette was taken care of. He had secured the  
chain binding her coffin.

That thought choked a sob out of his carefully composed face.

The lowering sun bathed the spacious drawing room in a deep maroon glow. The absolute stillness of the drapes and  
the cold eyes of Barnabas Collins in his portrait did nothing to dissuade Stokes that invisible Collins ghosts were  
lounging there, judging him with their ingrained refinement and haughtiness intact after generations of damnation.

Josette.

Those two syllables were the most painful in the human language.

Stokes stumbled to her favorite armchair and collapsed, pressing his handkerchief to his clammy brow. What he had  
just done was worse than murder. Far worse. Oh God, the sound of her cries as he brought the hammer down onto the  
pegs locking her there, away from him, forever!

He had executed his treachery in the basement calmly, coolly. Yet strangely now, now that he was above and could no  
longer hear her harrowing cries, he felt his resolve weakening.

He was suddenly desperate to release her. To let her feed on him, allowing her to regain her youth and splendor.  
Yet whenever he was tempted, he heard her melodious voice whisper, _"You have so little power and control over me you_  
 _are but a worm beneath my heel."_ He swallowed the bile in his throat those words conjured and his resolve reasserted  
itself. He was _not_ powerless. He _had_ control.

And yet—

For his darling to lie there rotting throughout eternity—

No. No, she _must_ die. It was the only compromise that would bring him peace.

He lifted his hands, staring at them wide-eyed as if he had never seen them before. They shook uncontrollably.

"I cannot do it!" He cried out at last. His voice was broken and plaintive, so much unlike his usual smooth, uninterested  
tones that he felt a stranger to himself.

He was on the verge of the most pitiful tears he had yet shed when came a knock on the door.  
He took a moment to free his countenance of any emotion. He hurried to the foyer to discover Barnabas having taken the  
initiative and already entered, his face hard and intractable.

Stokes stiffened immediately.

Barnabas glanced over him as one would a desk lamp or a cat as he strode into the drawing room. "Professor, have you  
seen Josette?"

"Why?" The professor asked in a slow, expressionless voice, watching Barnabas carefully.

Barnabas absently shrugged off his coat and threw it on the sofa as he paced the room worriedly. "She left Collinwood a  
little while ago in a state more agitated than any I've ever seen her in. I can't just let her be, no matter what she says. I  
have to see her."

Stokes licked his lips, cleared his throat. "I shouldn't worry, Barnabas. You know how high-strung she is."

So distracted was Barnabas that he missed the veiled insult to his beloved. "I know she can get a bit… _anxious_  
sometimes. A product of her claustrophobic upbringing in that convent, I suppose. But this was different, Stokes. She  
seemed legitimately terrified! Of what, I have no idea. One minute we were just talking, and the next"—

Stokes held up his hands and stepped forward casually. "Now, now, Barnabas, calm down. If you must know, she's not  
here right now. She drove into town."

Barnabas turned sharply, finally looking Stokes full in the face. "Into town? In the state she was in? What for?"

Stokes shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. "Headed to the bank, I believe. Maybe her finances are bothering her, I  
don't know. She did seem agitated now that you mention it." He studied Barnabas from under his bushy brows, an idea  
lodging itself into his volatile brain. _Yes. Of course. The ultimate revenge, the ultimate release. Since I will never be up to_ _the task, why don't I let her own beloved Barnabas be the one to…._

 _Ah, but first. First, he must remember. It must be the_ original _Barnabas who does the job._

"But you know, Barnabas," he continued aloud, reaching into his vest pocket. "I'm glad you're here. I was poking around  
downstairs and found the most fascinating little doodad. My guess is it belonged to a chandelier, or maybe it's some sort  
of earring. Heaven knows historical artifacts aren't my area of expertise. Thought maybe you could shed some light on it."

Barnabas shook his head impatiently, straining to be civil. "I'm sorry, Professor, but I'm not really of a mind right now  
to"—He turned and stopped. His face went slack and his eyes suddenly grew dull, glassy.

He stared at the swinging emerald and the light that glinted off it from where it dangled off the professor's golden chain.

Stokes' words washed over him like warm water. "Yes, Barnabas. Stare deep into the light. Sit down, Barnabas. Yes,  
right there on the sofa by your coat. I'll join you. Good. Now stare deeply into the crystal, Barnabas. Visions dwell there of  
great interest to you. From your life, only not the life you are experiencing now. You are familiar with the concept of  
reincarnation, are you not? Of course you are. You are a very educated man. Let these surroundings take you back to that  
time. After all, this environment is perfect, is it not? Nary a modern piece of furniture or appliance in sight. Nothing but  
what you yourself saw when you sat here with your family so many years ago. You see, there is an enemy in this house.  
An enemy you must destroy. Ah, but why? Why, because she destroyed you. Destroyed you long, long ago, with her lust  
and her lies. Now is the time for your revenge. Here, gaze into the crystal, and witness all that happened to you, and her,  
and the Collins family— _your_ family—that fateful year of 1795. Go back, Barnabas…go back…."

Barnabas's eyes glazed over and the crystal blurred, until the room swirled around him and he felt himself pulled back—  
not away from the room, but away from the day, the week, the month, the year.

And so, as if Eliot Stokes had pushed him backward through the looking glass, Barnabas Collins shattered the void and  
fell headlong into the past.


	12. Chapter 12

**_*****1795*****_**

Josette leaned her head out the carriage's window as it rolled up the steep climb to the Collins estate. Her eyes were  
wide with giddiness as she took in the coast of what was then still a territory of Massachusetts. How starkly different from  
Martinique's sleepy, sunny beaches and lush palm trees was the colony's gray sky, thunderous waves, high cliffs!

Yet the young girl of twenty felt no fear or disappointment at the objectively more grim surroundings than that of her  
opulent and summery youth. No, what better setting than something seemingly out of the works of Madame Radcliffe or  
Monsieur Walpole? Yet this was no medieval domain stuck in antiquity, such as _The Castle of Otranto_ —no, this was The  
New World.

And a New Beginning.

She felt under her lace glove her engagement ring, and smiled blissfully.

A dark cloud rivaling the ones above flitted across her face as she thought of her Secret—but never mind. Here, here,  
beneath the rough silver sky and in this untamed terrain, she and Barnabas Collins would make their life together. And  
she would forget her Secret and the shame and terror it brought her. Surely.

"Did you see that rabbit, Josette? Oh, I hope they don't make you shoot rabbits here!" A piquant little voice spoke from  
within the carriage, bringing Josette back from her musings.

She smiled indulgently at the small speaker. Stefan was just ten years old, as different in build from his father beside  
him, staring disdainfully out the window, as they were in character. Andre was stout, well-muscled, complexion ruddy  
with health. Stefan was willow-thin, so pale that one could see the blue veins of his eyelids, with that delicate, wistful  
beauty so unique to clear-souled children, a beauty that almost goes unnoticed, a beauty that only reveals itself in the  
mobile expressions on the face and in the eyes.

Josette loved them both ardently, and not for the first time wished her father could be kind to young Stefan.

Andre DuPres had fallen deeply in love with and married a Parisian lady named Marie in 1770. Five years later, in part for  
business and in part to dodge growing social unrest, they relocated to Martinique, their baby daughter Josette in tow.  
Andre acquired a large property of land, and quickly became one of the leading sugarcane producers on the island.  
Andre doted on wife and daughter both, cherishing them with a fervor characteristic of one who treasures so mightily that  
which he considers his—indeed, how many landowners can truly cultivate their plot without a deep abiding love for it?

Quite quickly it became apparent their daughter would inherit her mother's dazzling beauty, and with trade picking up,  
Andre basked in the security of having a beautiful, loving wife, a beautiful, loving daughter, and beautiful, loving land and  
prospects.

But when Josette turned ten years old, Marie found herself suddenly with child again.

As was usual even with affluent married couples then, Andre and Marie had had to face the periodic heartbreak of  
miscarriages and stillbirths over the years. However, Marie grew hopeful with each passing month that this time, this  
time, her babe would survive.

He did. However, by the time Stefan emerged screeching for life, it was clear to the doctor and nurses in attendance that  
Marie's time on Earth was limited. A fact that shook Andre DuPres to his core.

By nature he was a pompous but sunny man, optimistic and untroubled. He had heretofore led a vastly comfortable life,  
business and finances always coming to him easily. His precious, delicate little wife was with his daughter the most  
valued, intrinsic part of his life. The prospect of facing life without Marie—without her warm, slow hands on his shoulders  
as he worked in his study, without her tremulous alto singing silly but sad tunes at her needle, without her surprised  
laughs and serene smile—hardened something in the man. He looked at his infant son for the first time with something  
close to hatred in his eyes.

Marie, fading quickly, nonetheless saw that look and shuddered at it. Then she whispered to the nurse to bring her  
daughter in from the nursery.

Little Josette, in her dancing frock and toe shoes, stood wide-eyed at the doorway. Was…was that shrunken yellowtinged  
creature languishing there really her mother? Her mother, the most beautiful and gorgeous woman in the world?  
The woman with all the strength, all the wisdom, all the knowledge any little girl need ever trust to?

Marie smiled calmly at her child and Josette was reassured. _Mama is just a little tired, that's all._ She ran to her mother  
and buried her face in her chest.

"Listen to me, my darling Josette," Marie whispered into her daughter's curls. "Listen to me very carefully, sweetheart.  
Look to your left: see that sweet little crib? Go, peek inside it."

Josette did. A pink and peach little baby slept there, eyes squeezed shut. "It is my brother, Mama."

"Yes, dear. He is. But he must be more to you now."

Josette frowned, not understanding. Her mother beckoned her forward. "You must know that I am soon going to pass  
away, Josette." She hushed her daughter's frightened protests. "What I am about to say is very important, Josette. Yes, I  
am going to pass away. And that makes your father very, very angry. He…he might be so upset as to not make the very  
best father to little Stefan. But that is not fair to the little fellow, now is it?"

At this Stefan emitted a content little mew that did indeed strike the young Josette's heart with its unaware vulnerability.  
"Listen, Josette." Her mother stared emphatically at her: like she was an adult. "This child is your responsibility now. You  
must be his little mother. When his father is harsh, you must be gentle. When his father neglects him, you must tend to  
him. Above all, you must _love him_ , as he will be all yours. You must grow up now, my sweet Josette. Grow up for him.  
That is my final wish." She kissed Josette weakly on the cheek.

Two days later she was gone.

And Josette took her final wish to her childish heart as seriously as a knight takes a sacred errand from his king.  
She devoted herself to little Stefan, watching over him eagerly, sewing his first birthday suit, which was coincidentally the  
first full suit she ever finished. She taught him to read, to write. Taught him to ride. Taught him right and wrong. Taught  
him how to play the flute.

She adored him.

Andre, meanwhile, had fulfilled his wife's prophecy. That once sunny disposition now receded almost entirely, save for  
when with his daughter. He was snappish with his servants, terse with his business partners, and, most of all, cold and  
contemptuous of his little son. For not only was Stefan his own mother's murderer, but was also from an objective  
standpoint not what Andre would have wanted of a son: sickly and gentle instead of strong and thick-skinned. Thus,  
when he wasn't downright ignoring this walking reminder of his beautiful wife's demise, Andre was curt and dismissive.

This treatment made Josette redouble her kind attentions to the boy.

As Josette grew more and more like her mother every day, that reserved well of gentleness inside Andre poured out onto  
her. He spoiled her, petted her, refused to treat her as anything but a little girl, a doll he refused to contemplate could  
grow up and leave him.

Thus a strange dichotomy sprang up in Josette's personality. On the one hand she reflected her father's fawning,  
patronizing treatment by developing a childlike, girlish side to her personality and bearing that showed in her charm and  
innocent coquetry. Yet on the other, she became mature and maternal for Stefan's sake, and forsook some of the  
vanities and casual cruelties other ladies of her class and age were unwittingly often guilty of.

And it was while she was in the very bloom of this most charming conflict in traits, innocent girlhood and wise  
womanhood, that Barnabas Collins first met her….

A jolt from the carriage as it rounded the corner roused her from her memories. Her heart leapt to her throat as there, just  
outside the property with a group of servants by his side, holding his wolf-headed cane in one hand while the other was  
placed firmly upon his hip as his black cape blew about his shoulders, stood the soon-to-be master of the estate and of  
her heart.

"Barnabas!" She cried out as she leapt from the carriage, without a regard for propriety.

His heartbreaking smile spread over his face, his eyes lighting up. "Josette," he said in that husky voice that could cut  
through the harshest storm cloud and reach her.

They were in each other's arms.

"My sweet," he whispered into her hair.

Josette reveled in this feeling she had grown accustomed to in Martinique and had missed in his absence: serenity.  
Perfect, warm serenity in his arms.

Her father's harsh cough interrupted them. Andre was squinting about him, taking in the vast manor from what he could  
see of it on the near horizon. He inwardly sneered at the house's colonial style with its tall columns and white paint, so  
cheap looking and modern compared to the Old-World grace of his former plantation's gray-stone gothic beauty. Yet this  
was all bitterness and self-loathing disguised on Andre's part; his plantation, after all these glorious years, was failing.

Thus he had begrudgingly agreed to sign the necessary deed this interloper Barnabas Collins offered him and join in  
his new cannery business.

After all, this interloper was taking away his daughter. And Andre _would_ stay near his daughter.

"Welcome to your new home, Monsieur DuPres," Barnabas announced with that insufferable pride, confidently striding  
forward with hand outstretched. He was as usual not in the least bit cowed by his prospective father-in-law, as Andre  
reasoned any respectable son-in-law should be. "How does the place look to you from this distance?"

Andre sniffed. "It will do."

"Papa," Josette scolded, embarrassed by her father's curt response.

Yet Barnabas responded as he always did in such situations, with a hearty laugh. "I hope it will! Here, let me show you  
around the grounds while the servants head up with your luggage"—

Andre dismissed the offer with an indifferent flick of his hand. "I must decline for the moment, Mr. Collins. Go ahead and  
take Josette and the boy, but I do not trust these rough Americans. I will oversee the handling of our luggage." And  
looking like a newspaper caricature of a war general, he re-entered his carriage with head high and hands crossed  
behind his back as the now nervous brood of servants tip-toed around him and into their own coach.

"Very well, Monsieur! My father and mother should be ready to receive you, and we will be with you shortly." Swallowing  
their laughs, Josette and Barnabas ushered Stefan through the fence and toward the lush pathway to the front yard.  
Josette delighted in the imported rose bushes and camellias lining the path, while Barnabas assured Stefan that no one  
was forced to hunt who didn't wish it, and that Barnabas would find him a rabbit all his own to keep as a pet.

Soon the two lovers drifted nearer each other, smiling coyly as Stefan rapidly explained what he'd read about breeding  
rabbits and horses.

"Are you excited, my love?" Barnabas murmured.

"Mmm," Josette responded, closing her eyes and leaning her head on his shoulder. "At the moment I am content simply  
to be here with you…" Suddenly her eyes snapped open. "Stefan!" She called. "Do not wander off too far, darling! Come  
back from that sticker bush, dear, you might prick yourself!" She hurried after him.

This display brought back warm memories for Barnabas of the first night he knew he loved Josette DuPres.

As his father's only heir, Barnabas had borne the elderly Joshua Collins's insistence that his son should take part in the  
trade side of the business—meaning Barnabas was forced to leave behind the welcoming solitude of Collinwood's  
library and expansive fields perfect for early morning rides to travel abroad.

He put up with the temporary annoyance, in the hopes that his acquiescence would make his proposal to shift the family  
business toward canneries more palatable to his usually intractable father. Yet any annoyance at this state of affairs for  
Barnabas vanished when he arrived in Martinique and entered the home of Andre DuPres, and met eighteen-year-old  
Josette.

She was beautiful, enchanting. Her figure and countenance seemed plucked from the deepest pool of his subconscious  
fantasies, fantasies he did not know even existed within him until he saw her.

Yet Barnabas Collins was a steady-minded man of thirty-three then, not prone to falling for that false, age-old trap of "love  
at first sight."

No, while he was obsessed with her image, her charm, Barnabas would not admit himself in love, not with a mere wisp  
of a child like her. Not while he knew so little of her character. Not until the ball held at the plantation, a week after he  
landed in Martinique.

With a charming combination of girlish shyness and impetuous wantonness, Josette spent the majority of the evening  
hovering about this handsome stranger from untamed, tumultuous America, shooting impish glances through thick,  
bristly lashes, her lips curving into an ever-quivering smile. She laughed at his cynical offhand jokes, danced with him.

With Josette's other suitors, such tricks never failed. Yet Barnabas grew gloomier with each volleyed witticism, each pert  
rejoinder, each practiced blush.

He was on the verge of dismissing her as an empty-headed ninny, a beautiful but vain flirt.

When a small helpless voice screamed from within one of the bedrooms upstairs, startling those assembled.

"Josette! Josette! Come quickly! Josette! A dragon! A terrible dragon!" The little voice called out, tears and hysteria in his  
cries.

Barnabas recognized the voice of young Stefan.

Immediately Josette's face lost all signs of studied grace; she went white and her lips tightened with grim fear as she  
tore off upstairs without a word of apology, Barnabas and the ball forgotten.

Barnabas stood in shock. He heard murmured voices around him. "Well! She didn't even bother to make an excuse to  
her new beau before leaving him that way!" "The child is obviously just having a nightmare, it's sickening how that girl  
tends to him." "She'll never catch a husband in that way, not with that child always coming first."

Barnabas listened. Then he came to a conclusion of his own. He also made a decision. He strode across the ballroom,  
holding in tart words to throw back at the jealous ladies and disappointed suitors watching him.

Upstairs, Josette sat on Stefan's bed, smoothing his hair as he trembled. She listened attentively to his tale of horror. He  
had entered the dragon's den, only realizing he had forgotten his sword the instant the monster awoke.

"And oh, Josette! His eyes when he saw me! They were hard and yellow, like that awful snake Courage barked at in the  
yard the other day! Only twenty times bigger!"

"Oh, how dreadful, Stefan. You were a very brave boy to go in that den at all, you know."

"Josette, what if he comes back?" Tears spilled down his cheeks as he buried his face in her shoulder, throwing his  
arms around her neck.

She squeezed him reassuringly, laughing without the faintest hint of mockery. "My boy! There are no dragons here! Papa  
wouldn't allow such a lack of decorum."

"Dragons don't care at all about where they're allowed or not allowed! I was only trying to save you from him, but he was  
so angry! He'll come back, I know it, he will!"

A new voice spoke from the doorway. "Well, then, young sir, I and the other gentlemen had better stand guard."

Josette and Stefan turned in surprise. Josette's heart pounded and Stefan smiled happily through his tears. It was that  
Barnabas Collins who treated him like a grown-up! Barnabas Collins, who was quickly becoming the boy's hero, the  
boy's role model.

Yet Stefan showed none of the blustering embarrassment another youth might have when caught weeping in front of his  
hero. He wiped away no tears, put on no false face of bravery. He instead whispered rapidly, "Are you sure, Monsieur?  
Will you really fight off the dragon?"

With hands crossed behind his back, Barnabas entered the room with perfect dignity and composure, the look of a  
weathered general in his eye. "I have some military experience. I volunteered to help guard the beaches during the very  
last legs of the American Revolution when I was a lad in my teens and early twenties. Dragons are all smoke; they are  
no match for a good sword and pistol. Once he sees our ranks, he'll retreat like the coward he is." He nodded  
deferentially to Stefan. "You have my word of honor, sir."

Stefan sighed and leaned back on his pillows. "Good! Maybe…maybe I can sleep better now." His eyes widened.  
"Unless you need my help."

Barnabas held up his hand. "No, sir, you need to recover after your brush with danger. Rest now. I have everything under  
control."

He made eye contact with Josette. The light in their depths revealed everything.

Later as he bid her goodnight at the door, Josette stepped out into the moonlight and gave him her hand. "Monsieur, I  
thank you for guarding us from dragons."

He just barely kept back his smile. "Doing my bit for God and Country, ma'am." He looked at her intently. "I would like to  
thank you, too."

"What for?"

"For showing me genuine love and care can exist in this benighted modern world."

At these words, a glow appeared to encase her, shooting from her eyes all around her. However, it was not the heavenly  
light of poetry, but something more feral, more passionately dark—not an aureole, but a fire. Then she said something  
no young lady ever should at such a time, at such a place, in such a forward manner.

"Monsieur, I believe I am in love with you."

Barnabas felt his obsession with her beauty and charm and his reverence of her selfless nature collide, creating  
something deeper than obsession, deeper than reverence.

He squeezed her hand as he huskily returned, "I adore you, Mademoiselle. Adore you…."

Barnabas blinked, awakened from his reflections of Martinique by that precious hand slipping into his again as they  
neared his front door. "Our wandering boy is retrieved and unharmed," she announced, Stefan by her side.  
"Much relieved," he replied.

Stefan, as with most sensitive people, was easily overwhelmed by new sights and sounds, but once the novelty passed,  
felt suddenly suffocated and plagued by doubts and insecurities, lost. He approached his landline, his sister, and quietly  
tugged on her skirt. "Josette?" He whispered.

As attuned to her brother's emotional state as she was to her own, Josette shifted her mood accordingly and addressed  
him seriously. "Yes, Stefan? What is it?"

"When…when you and Barnabas marry…will you still see much of me?" His voice broke at the end and he looked guiltily  
toward Barnabas, as if the young boy was afraid his future brother-in-law would think Stefan was besmirching him.

"Don't be silly, my darling!" Josette laughed. "I will see you as often as I possibly can!"

"Indeed, young man!" Barnabas added. He pointed with his cane to the house. "That is to be your new home! You will  
have lots of room to ride horses, and I have a cousin living with me named Daniel who is just about your age! Josette  
and I will be living only a little ways up that hill there! Come." He led the two to a clearing in the trees and pointed to the  
hill overlooking the estate. "See?" There stood an almost-finished house, workers dodging in-and-out carrying wood and  
tools amidst shouted commands and loud hammering.

Unfinished as it was the house looked grand, like it could engulf the current manor.

"That's the castle I'm whisking our dear lady off to, Stefan. And from here you can watch the sea and warn us of  
approaching pirates, or tell us when the mermaids are out singing."

Stefan's face brightened. "Really? Are they like the sirens in that book Josette was reading me, _The Odyssey?"_

Barnabas knelt down, considering the question seriously. "Not precisely. See, American mermaids are more"—

Josette listened apart from the huddled pair as Barnabas delved into detail, gesticulating out to the sea, his enthralling  
voice causing Stefan to forget at once all his doubts. Josette never felt such crushing love as she did in that moment,  
watching that reserved, aquiline face lit from within by a fatherly devotion to the child she would die for. She thought of the  
children they would have. She thought of the ghost stories he would tell them. She thought of sleeping beside him each  
night. She thought of growing old with him. She thought of—

The butler approached. "Excuse me, sir, Master Joshua and Mistress Naomi are prepared to receive our guests." He bowed to Josette.

"Excellent!" Barnabas stood. "Come, my love! Prepare to meet the warmest woman and the coldest man in Collinsport."

Josette, though usually self-possessed and sure of her manners, couldn't help but feel nervous as she crossed the  
Collins threshold to meet her beloved's parents, who carried with them weighty reputations and mixed reports from  
Barnabas.

She needn't have worried about how she presented herself. Instinctively, her well-ingrained sense of propriety kicked in,  
and it was a lively and sure young lady who shook hands with the beautiful Naomi Collins with her sad deep eyes and  
slow grace, and the rigidly unemotional Joshua Collins.

"Welcome to Collinsport, dear Josette," Naomi said in a low, musical voice. Josette felt unexpected tears sting her eyes.  
 _Mother!_ She thought in spite of herself. For indeed, the woman in front of her now and the younger Marie DuPres of  
Josette's memory had a similar comforting and loving aura, the same slow movements and warm expressions. Yet as  
Joshua Collins spoke, Josette could not help but note that there was a repressed melancholy about Naomi that her  
contented mother never had.

"Yes, welcome to Collinsport, Monsieur DuPres, Mademoiselle," the Collins patriarch said stiffly. His head seemed  
perpetually leaned back, as if to eternally look down on everyone in front of him. One nostril flared and a corner of his  
mouth turned down, giving the unpleasant impression of a sneer. "You are a pretty maid and will no doubt make a fine  
bride." His tone, surprisingly, was anything but complimentary.

He gestured carelessly behind him, to where a stony-faced young lad of around Stefan's age peeked out from behind the  
housekeeper. "This is our cousin Daniel, orphaned at a young age and living with us. He is a boy of quiet habits and will  
not be in your way." That concluded his introduction of Daniel Collins.

The boy looked at Stefan. Stefan looked back. The French boy's smile was his best feature. He gave it unreservedly to  
everyone he met, and when he did so his whole face became involved, his eyes gleaming trustingly to the recipient.  
In spite of himself, Daniel smiled back—more reservedly, of course.

After a few more formal and restrained pleasantries between the DuPres family and the Collins family, Joshua turned to  
his son. "By the way, Barnabas, word came in while you were away that Nicholas is returning soon from Boston with the  
items you requested."

"Ah! Splendid!"

"Nicholas Blair, that valet of yours?" Andre asked contemptuously. He had been put off by the sly, sneaky looks of that  
man, who always seemed somehow to be underfoot while serving his master at the DuPres plantation.

"The very same loyal and irascible fellow," Barnabas said with a smile. "He's been with me for years, of course. Now! Let  
us commence with our tour of the house."

He took Josette's hand as the party headed toward the drawing room. So preoccupied was he, and everyone else, that  
Josette's pale face and drawn features escaped notice.

At the mention of Nicholas Blair's name, a knife seemed to stab through her happiness.

And she thought of her Secret once more.

* * *

 _*******1967*******_

Paul ceased pacing his room in deep meditation the moment he heard Elizabeth's voice call out in panic. "Roger!

Roger!"

Paul crept silently out into the hallway and leaned forward on the banister, catching every word the brother and sister  
exchanged downstairs.

"What is it, Elizabeth, what is it?"

"She's gone, Roger. She's gone."

"Calm down, calm down. Who's gone? Carolyn?"

"Yes, Carolyn! I'd been looking for her everywhere, and there's no trace of her! And…and…."

"Slow down, slow down. And what?"

"I spoke to Mrs. Johnson. She…she thought she saw out the kitchen window Carolyn chasing after…after _Willie_ …and  
that was hours ago! Hours!"

Paul went white and still. He didn't feel his feet move. He practically floated back to his bedroom.

He shut the door securely.

Rage unlike any he'd experienced before washed over him.

 _"Willie,"_ he hissed.

Hands trembling with ire, he pulled out the crumpled piece of paper penned by Nicholas Blair.

A force greater than himself led his next actions. _Now was the time to exact revenge._


	13. Chapter 13

_*******1795*******_

Three nights after her arrival, Josette stood waiting for Barnabas on the back porch of the great house, taking in the  
twilight garden nervously.

She hadn't a chance to see him alone since that day in the garden, and, impatient, had sent him a note asking to meet  
her here after supper. Barnabas replied in the affirmative with a clandestine nod at the dinner table. She'd thus endured  
the somber, tightly polite affair that Collins dinners invariably were. The only stirrings of life were in the debates between  
Barnabas and his father over the possibility of this half of Massachusetts seceding to form its own colony (Barnabas  
was for, his father against) and the ever-present argument over the abolishment of slavery in the rest of the colonies  
(Barnabas was again for, and aghast at his father's indifferent opinion that the continuation of slavery "might be the best  
thing for those people, really," Joshua still secretly bitter that Massachusetts had abolished slavery some ten or so years  
earlier, doing away with a fair quantity of his good—and free—labor). Father and son's barely controlled antagonism  
toward each other, combined with Naomi's distant resignation and Andre's coolly dismissive superiority, made the  
whole affair awkward and strained.

Josette would have been relieved to stand alone in the cool night air, waiting for her lover, were it not for the one thought  
weighting her down.

 _Nicholas Blair._

Her eyes grew hard and bright as she wandered back to Martinique, to the months following that confession of love  
between she and Barnabas….

Millicent Collins, cousin to Barnabas and sister to Daniel, stopped in to the DuPres plantation officially to visit her cousin  
on the way back from a trip to Paris, and as an unofficial envoy from the Collins estate to investigate this mysterious  
young DuPres lady, who was rumored to soon be announced as Barnabas's betrothed.

It became quite obvious to all involved that a subtler spy could have been employed. Subtlety didn't seem part of the  
young woman's makeup. This was a trait that either never existed in her or had been burned out through Millicent's  
constant bouts with various illnesses, that had not only weakened her fragile frame, but her constitution of anything  
requiring tact or perseverance. In a sense, she was hysterical when being slightly put out was more appropriate,  
devastated when a light melancholy better fit the bill, and mad with unbridled joy when the occasion was only cheerful.

These outbursts were regularly accompanied by fainting spells, and the threat of relapse into whatever ailment she was  
currently recovering from.

Yet this hyperbolic personality was not without its own unique charm: the charm of the childlike and the doll. Added to  
this she was undeniably pretty, with silky heaps of golden hair, fine, delicate features, and small, graceful hands and  
feet. These charms were of course countenanced with her frail sickliness, and therefore, though charmed, the masses  
were inclined not to take Millicent Collins very seriously.

Luckily for Josette, Millicent was a harmless thing (which often cannot be said for the easily hysterical), and clung to her  
cousin's paramour like Josette was a combination sister and governess. For her beloved's sake, Josette took this in  
stride, and soon became genuinely fond of the hapless girl practically thrust into her charge, judging by the girl's  
dependent behavior.

Which left Josette all the more vulnerable to Nicholas Blair's calculated blow.

If Barnabas was her Richard the Lionheart, her Othello, then there was no doubt in Josette's mind now—and perhaps  
subconsciously then—that his valet Blair was his Prince John, his Iago. The man was a constant shadow of his  
employer's. He was a sleek, dark, dashingly handsome man, with prominent eyes of a black, witchy shade. He walked  
with slow, romantic movements that lent him a calculating air. He was the first servant Josette had ever met who stared  
unabashedly into her eyes, and never bothered to stifle the admiration—and lust—simmering there.

She shivered under such looks. And yet, was it a shiver of disgust she felt that made her spine tingle and her cheeks  
grow hot as flame, or—

Even now, after her fall, Josette refused to contemplate the other end of that "or."

Not only did he hound Barnabas's footsteps, but many was the time when Josette, in her solo hours, would turn around  
to encounter Blair staring down at her, looming over her as if he had been there for hours. He would smile his tight grin  
with its gleaming white teeth, and then ask if he could be of service, as he was just passing by and noticed  
Mademoiselle out on the terrace—or in the library, in the garden—all alone.

She felt his eyes on her always when they were in the same quarters. Once when she had embraced Barnabas she had  
almost gasped aloud at the look of murder on Blair's face, hovering just behind his master's shoulder.

Yet Barnabas was blind to any fault in his valet. Oh, he certainly knew Nicholas had _faults_ , but Barnabas believed them  
only of the amusing, rascally variety of no real harm to anyone; he believed Nicholas his closest ally.

Barnabas first found Nicholas Blair when the man washed ashore as young Collins patrolled the beaches with his troop  
during the last days of the Revolution, Blair half-delirious and half-dead, yet holding on, holding on, holding on with a  
strength and a flicker in his blazing eyes that seemed almost unearthly.

Barnabas helped nurse the slender man back to health. Nicholas told him that he had been shipwrecked, his livelihood  
lost. Yet Barnabas couldn't help but note the carelessness with which he told his sorry tale, a nonchalant attitude about  
him the man wore seemingly like a cloak. Amused by Blair's ruthless humor and blatantly insinuating ways, Barnabas  
took him on as his personal valet, and, so he thought, as his most treasured friend.

Barnabas Collins had no idea his treasured friend violently coveted his fiancée.

Josette herself did not know the extent of his fixation until a month or so after Millicent's arrival. Josette had woken up late  
that day after sitting up most of the night with a nightmare-ridden Stefan, to find the house in disorder. Her father had left  
early for an appointment, and she couldn't find a servant free enough to answer her questions, since they were all  
running this way and that, a hard panic set in their faces.

Josette decided it best to go to Barnabas for answers, since if anyone spoke to her straightly, it was he.  
She got no further than the bay window upstairs. There she espied Barnabas riding off at great speed in his two-seat  
carriage, Millicent hunched beside him, her head against his shoulder. Josette couldn't see their faces.

She watched them until they were no longer visible. She made a slight face of befuddlement. A slight face that grew  
more and more as she walked more and more decisively to the one place she could find—and was willing to find—  
answers.

Nicholas Blair answered the door to his private room and stood very still at the sight of his nervous visitor.

"May I come in?" She asked in a reluctant voice.

He bowed graciously, standing back. "Please, Mademoiselle."

Leaving behind all doubts of propriety, Josette sped in. After he closed the door, she said quickly, "Monsieur Blair, I must  
know what is going on. I wake up to a house upside down with frantic servants who have no time to give me answers  
besides some babble about "Mademoiselle Collins" and an "upset"; then I look outside just now, and what do I see but  
Barnabas and Millicent riding off together! What does it all mean, sir?"

Her large eyes were on him with a look of honest appeal.

He closed his and sighed. "Ah," he said at last, "Master Barnabas did not have the heart to tell you, then?"  
Josette froze. "What do you mean? Tell me what?"

For once there was no mocking lasciviousness to be detected in Nicholas's manner, though looking back, Josette knew  
he was not without seduction even then.

He took her by the arm. "Please, Mademoiselle, sit down. I will tell you, though I'd rather give kingdoms not to."

Mouth open and dry, Josette was too seized with apprehension to note the impropriety of his hand on her arm and that  
her seat was, in fact, upon his bed.

He frowned for a moment, looking down. Then in a voice as smooth and hypnotic as the sea, he told her that Barnabas  
and Millicent had been passionately in love in America, but Millicent, being naturally timid and changeful, called off their  
engagement and fled to Paris to think things over. Distraught, Barnabas himself fled, all the way to Martinique, on the  
pretext of business. Here he became infatuated with Mademoiselle Josette—quite naturally so, if Blair might take the  
liberty of saying—and thus found temporary solace.

Yet Millicent's passion for Barnabas was unbroken, even with her previous show of doubt. She grew actually sick with  
longing, and so, in an incredibly unladylike display, if Blair might be so bold to say, had followed Master Barnabas here  
when she heard of his entanglement with Mademoiselle.

The sight of Millicent again was too much for Master Barnabas. He hid it well, played the kindly, indifferent cousin  
perfectly, and affected further attachment to Mademoiselle Josette, but alas—he could withstand it no longer. This  
morning, he woke Blair to tell him that he could not take another moment deceiving Mademoiselle DuPres or another  
moment without Mademoiselle Collins by his side, and was eloping with her to the nearest church.

"I had assumed he woke you to tell you, Mademoiselle, and that you had taken to your room in grief. I suppose he could  
not bear hurting you; do not think too unkindly of him, Mademoiselle."

His dark eyes flashed over her quickly. "Mademoiselle? Are you all right?" His voice was clipped with concern.

Josette had turned ice pale, cold to the touch, frozen in place. She seemed hardly to be breathing.

Then Nicholas noticed her breath come out in rhythmic yet jerky huffs from flared nostrils, and the majestic eyes blaze  
and blaze; then, face still not revealing any expression, her eyes spilled over with tears.

She was clearly in shock.

Through her daze, she felt his large, warm, slender hands caress her cheeks, tapered fingers wiping away the tears. His  
voice was soothing honey. "Now, now, Miss. You mustn't. My dear, you mustn't cry."

He was beside her on the bed, his arm secure around her waist, endlessly comforting. His curled lips were in her hair,  
her ear.

She shivered.

"My pet," he breathed.

His grip grew tighter.

And something hot bloomed inside Josette.

Hate mixed with something primal and heated made her turn her head and meet his lips.

He knew just what to say to make her feel wanted, beloved again. He loved her. Adored her. Worshiped her from the  
moment he saw her. The words were husky on her neck, on her bare skin as he unloosed her blouse.

They leaned back on the bed. As he continued murmuring and whispering desperate words of love—she was what he  
lived for each day, just the sight of her eyes, her form, the sound of her voice were enough to sustain him in his labors—  
she felt possessed by some sharp creature inside of her. With something between a growl and a purr, her fingers flew  
at the openings of his vest, his undershirt.

They spoke no more. As they moved together, they moaned into each other's hair, their skin. Josette's heart was a drum,  
urging her on, on, as the hot flower bloomed and scorched her.

At last they sighed and relaxed into another world, collapsing on the bed. Josette lay staring at the ceiling, Nicholas  
panting against her breast.

They stayed breathing for a long, silent time.

As reality returned to Josette, her heart beat again, but from a new emotion.

She bolted up. "I…I…." She looked about at the debris, her clothes and his spread wantonly about, her nakedness and  
his. She leapt to her feet and dressed hurriedly.

She did her best to ignore his murmurings from where he still rested on the bed. "My love, why put up this modest front?  
We belong to each other now…."

She didn't see that his eyes were watching carefully each of her movements, the look in the dark irises beyond words.  
"I…I…" She repeated dumbly once she'd put herself in order again, at least in a physical sense. She could not believe,  
would not believe what had just happened. She wouldn't meet those penetrating eyes, she was flushed, she was  
disoriented, she was floating above it all. She swallowed. "I have to go."

She ran from the room, slamming the door behind her. Luckily for the frazzled lady, there was no one in the hall to see  
her leave his room in such an altered state, and she ran and ran from the servant's hall, simply ran. _I must get to my_  
 _room. I must get to my room, lock the door, and hide there, crouching in a corner, until I am dead. Yes._

She reached her hallway.

She was stopped by a voice calling for her on the stairs. "Josette!"

Her heart stopped. Spinning around, there he was.

Barnabas was walking up the steps to her.

In a detached fog, she observed him closely. His face was grim but not contrite, eyes sad but not rueful. His steps were  
weary, and his shoulders slumped. He did not look like the triumphant groom; but he also strangely didn't look like the  
shamed deceiver.

"Barnabas?" She was just able to whisper.

He stopped as he reached her at the head of the stairs. He didn't hesitate to look her in the eyes. The same tender love  
was there, along with this new sadness. "Darling, I have terrible news."

She managed to raise her head defiantly. "So you've come back to tell me," she inquired in what she hoped was a cool  
voice.

He looked mildly perplexed. "How did you know? I've only just come back, you're the first person I've seen"—

"You told Nicholas Blair. I asked him, and he told me." She felt a wicked triumph now. She was almost proud, yes, proud  
of what she'd done. Maybe, maybe next she'll tell Barnabas all about—

"Ah," Barnabas closed his eyes and nodded. "You only know what Nicholas knew then, which was that Millicent had  
taken a turn for the worse."

She blinked, shaking her head. "…What? What was that?"

He gave her a small, sad smile. "Poor darling, you've probably been so distracted with concern you've worn yourself out. I  
know you've grown fond of Millicent. You're cross with me for not telling you before we left, but her attack came on so  
suddenly. Dearest, I'm so sorry, but Millicent is dead."

Her breath contracted in her throat. "Dead?"

He sat down tiredly on the small bench in the foyer. "For so long poor Millie had taken on and on about whatever illness  
she'd been suffering that none of us noticed when she became seriously ill. I don't know how much Nicholas told you,  
but this morning she woke up coughing and choking on blood, alarming the hell out of her maid who came running at  
her retching sounds. Millie was so racked with the coughs she was turning blue. I had to get her straight away to the  
doctor; I'd seen enough bad cases of consumption in the army to know she was fading fast." He sighed deeply, leaning  
his head against the wall. "And fade fast she did. She died only twenty minutes after I got her to the doctor's door."

Josette swayed on her feet. She heard Barnabas's voice asking, "Darling, are you all right," as if she were underwater  
and he was calling from shore. Before she lost consciousness in his arms, everything became clear to her.

Nicholas Blair lied to her, manipulated her. He had used Millicent's fatal illness as excuse to spin a vicious lie, all for but  
a few hours of stolen pleasure. And yet, if she exposed his treachery, would she still not be a ruined woman...?

Josette jumped as Barnabas called her, returning her to the present, to the Collins porch at twilight. The smile of relief  
she greeted her beloved with barely masked the hot flush on her cheek.

He stroked that cheek lovingly. "Darling, are you all right?" She shivered as she recalled the last time he had asked her  
that. "You're red as a beet!"

"Oh," she said, affecting coyness, "That's just what happens whenever I see you, dear."

He winked at her. "Now, now, Mademoiselle. You know perfectly well flattery will get you everywhere with me."

Already the wan smile was turning into a real one, and her answering laugh was genuine.

He tucked her hand into his elbow. "Come. Let me show you my favorite walk and my favorite view of Collinsport."

They advanced silently for several minutes—he treasuring her nearness, she contemplating her deadly Secret, yet both  
lulled by the night air drifting in from the sea. Lavender and lilacs lined the path they took, the flowers' color a misty violet  
in the moonlight.

Once they entered the forest with its giant black trees and twisted brambles, the atmosphere at once became more  
ghostly, and each felt the need of conversation to ground them.

Barnabas laughed to himself as he said, "Remind me soon to show you the seeming wedding present my dear father  
has constructed."

"What is that?"

"A family tomb."

"Oh, heavens!"

He laughed more freely, the kind that made him lean his head back and expose his strong fine teeth, a sight and sound  
that always made Josette's heart surge. "Oh, don't worry. Contentious as our relationship is, the old man has no plans to  
terminate it in that way any time soon. No, my esteemed father simply wanted another excuse to construct yet one more  
secret passage way."

"My word, is he back on that pastime again?" Josette asked bemused. Barnabas had confided in her of his father's  
constant paranoia about robbers and invaders, afraid the populace would one day turn on the wealthy Collins clan just  
as they had turned on the British (a cause that Joshua felt worthy, but he couldn't help look askance at the downright  
hostile zeal the common folk now seemed to view the rich with consequently). This badgering fear led to his penchant for  
creating hidden passage ways through various tunnels leading to and from the estate; after hiring his contractors  
secretly, he then paid the men amply to move away before they were tempted to tell any tales.

Barnabas claimed that Joshua's most recent enterprise was certainly his masterpiece; behind the tomb's wall lay a  
secret room, from which, if you were to turn the right candleholder to the left, one half of the floor would open up as a sort  
of trap door, and if you followed the passage below, you'd come out to a wall you must slide open, and there would be  
the second story of the new house.

"Of course," Barnabas finished in a wryly-confidential murmur, "You mustn't reveal a word of this to anyone, or else my  
father would quite actually disown me."

"I swear, this sounds just like something out of _Castle of Otranto!"_ Josette was amazed.

Barnabas raised his eyebrows in surprise, faux-scandalized. "Well! Don't tell me the ever-virtuous Mademoiselle DuPres  
has read that controversial offering from Mr. Horace Walpole!"

He didn't know it, but his light words about her virtue wounded her as she remembered…she coughed and turned away.

A long pause followed as he continued chuckling, unaware of her discomposure. She regarded him carefully before she  
said in a desperately careless yet sympathetic voice, "Poor Miss Wick!"

"Hm?"

She looked down at her hands that were playing with a petal she had absently picked from a nearby bush. "I'm sure you  
have heard of the predicament of poor Miss Phyllis Wick, who left before I got here. It's all the servants are gossiping  
about up at the house."

Phyllis Wick had as of late been Daniel's longsuffering governess, a fair, faintly pretty girl, with the look of a frightened  
doe about her. Her difficult job trying to teach a determinedly hostile and closed off-charge, and be constantly  
reprimanded for failing to do so by an equally hostile and closed-off employer, had succeeded almost entirely in  
destroying the young woman's nerves.

And thus Lt. Nathan Forbes, dashing naval officer recently put in command of enforcing law at Collinsport, was easily  
able to persuade her to succumb to his particular brand of comfort.

The fruits of this comfort became quite visibly noticeable some months later.

Although Naomi was favored to look leniently on the girl's transgression, given what the Collins matriarch knew of  
Forbes's character, Joshua had given Wick no leeway.

She was out without her last wages, cast out with the bitterest words Mr. Collins could reproach her with. Sobbing  
piteously, Wick ran away presumably to an inn where she could find overnight lodging and a hansom cab that could  
whisk her away to a nearby town. There she could maybe masquerade as a widow; hopefully she was headed nowhere  
like directly into the sea, where not a few girls before her had walked in disgrace.

"Yes, I know all about that," Barnabas growled through clenched teeth. "Shameful, positively shameful!"

Josette's heart sank, but then he continued. "If I had only not been in Boston at the time, I could have helped the poor girl,  
kept my father from his ungodly ruthless act! No feeling of sympathy did he have for the girl, none! He is positively  
 _shameless!"_

"You…you believe she deserves sympathy?" Her voice broke slightly.

"Yes, of course!" He said in a decided voice. "Why should a woman be constantly shamed for transgressing when we  
men do it all the time with little censure? Certainly Forbes won't lose _his_ position over it. And he has done this sort of  
thing constantly to poor witless girls who haven't anyone to defend them, no one to take up their cause!" He exhaled  
angrily. "I hope you do not find me degenerate for my next comment, Josette, but the fact remains that physical intimacy  
is a totally natural act between a man and a woman. To teach a woman to fear and shun it while encouraging a man to  
pursue it is not only perverse but also illogical. Why not teach both to enjoy it in a healthy manner, with no shame or  
outcry attached to the act? After all, where would we all be without that certain act, eh?" He looked at her. "Do I shock  
you?" He was serious.

Josette's eyes caressed him. "Oh, no, my love. I…I am quite, quite pleased with your liberal views."

Barnabas was surprised, but happy. "Good. I am glad of that, Josette." They walked down the path silently again, Josette  
reveling in what she had just learned of her lover's opinions. Perhaps…perhaps yet it was possible now to convey...

Barnabas cleared his throat awkwardly. In a softer voice, he began, "I am indeed glad you think as I do, Josette. You see,  
I…." another cough. He looked away from her. "Well, something has been weighing on me for quite some time. My  
father, of course, with his backward hypocrisy, has tried dissuading me from telling you, saying it not only would distress  
you but that it is also none of your business. I disagree wholeheartedly. I have always treasured the honesty we share  
with one another, my Josette, so because of this, I must tell you that I…well…my dearest sweet one, you will not be the  
first woman I know."

A breeze brushed them through the branches.

He continued. "It's a sort of rite of passage for young men in these parts to seek out…company from poor beleaguered  
women who collect pay for such acts. And as I grew older, I found even women higher in society who would…indulge  
me." He shuddered at his wording. "Lord, how base I've been sometimes. But, my dear!" He turned around, stopping just  
outside of the forest's clearing to take her by the arms and look her straight in the eyes. "I promise, none of them meant  
one-tenth what you do to me. If you liked my liberal views just now, please be liberal with me here! Forgive me, my  
Josette!"

He had expected outrage, sadness, shock, or at least trepidation. He did not expect a look of unbridled joy.

"Oh yes, my love!" She was ecstatic. He…he, too! He, too, has transgressed! Of course he has! And if he feels the way he  
does, that men should be as accountable as women, or, no, that's not exactly what he said, no, it was even better, that  
neither should feel shame at all—oh, heavens! Certainly he'd forgive! _I just first have to show him I do!_ "Of course I forgive  
you! Of course! Oh, it's marvelous you're so open about this. It makes no difference to me, the past is the past!"

She felt weak in the knees at his open and relieved smile. "Beloved, you are a wonder! A delight!" He pulled her to him.  
Over his shoulder, she ignored the moon staring down at her almost in judgment as her mind screamed at her, _Now!_  
 _Now! Tell him now!_

Yet something still held her back as he took her hand in his and led her toward a long, narrow cliff in front of them. "Here!

Now that you have taken my breath away with your graciousness, let me take yours away with the beautiful view I  
promised you, my favorite spot in the world!"

They stepped out as far as they safely could. "We are on a place named after the unfortunate sailor wives who voluntarily  
met their ends here when their husbands never returned from sea, and who according to legend can still be heard in the  
howling of the wind. Josette, meet Widow's Hill!" He spread his hand out at the magnificent, stormy view of the waves  
and the jagged rock far, far below.

Her breath caught in her throat as she took in the dizzying sight. This alone wiped away with a blast every fantastical  
description she'd ever read in her novels. "Unbelievable," she whispered as she gazed down, transfixed.  
Barnabas's loving squeeze brought her back to reality. "From now on, this will be our place," he whispered to her. "If ever  
you want to meet with me alone, just say the words 'Widow's Hill' and I will understand at once."

He was taken aback by the fiery, resolved heat radiating from her eyes, the decided set of her chin. The strong wind  
bellowing around her from the sea, the reckless danger of the rocks below, and her stature high above them lent Josette  
an elemental courage. Yes. Yes. She could do it now. And she would.

"Barnabas," she said without a single waver in her voice, "I must tell you that I"—

A soft, referential cough behind Barnabas stilled the words in her throat. At once, her courage froze and shattered,  
leaving behind a quaking shell.

Barnabas turned around to face Nicholas Blair, standing a respectful distance toward the trees, hands behind his back.  
Only the gleaming grin betrayed the saucy spirit within. "Good evening, sir. I do apologize for intruding."

"Nicholas!" Barnabas laughed again, slapping his comrade on the shoulder. "You old bloodhound, you've sniffed your  
way back up from Boston, have you."

Nicholas inclined his head as he shook his master's hand. "Once I get the scent, sir, I never stop the hunt." His serene  
eyes met Josette's.

Her face was dead white against the black sky.

Nicholas returned his gaze placidly to Barnabas. "I hate to interrupt your meeting with Mademoiselle, but I do need your  
assistance with some of the items you requested I bring back from Boston." He looked at Barnabas significantly.

At once Barnabas swallowed a smile, glancing slyly at Josette. "Oh, ah, yes. Of course. Forgive me, darling, but I have…  
certain business to attend to with our Nicholas." He held out the chivalrous arm again. "Shall we head in?"

Like a mere wind-up doll, Josette passively accepted the arm and walked back with him. The whole way to the house, she felt Nicholas's eyes burning into the back of her head from where he followed dutifully behind.

With each step she took she realized, with a numbed resignation, that never again would it be the time to tell.

Never.

* * *

 _ ******1967******_

Willie and Carolyn's voices were hoarse from crying out, their fists red and aching as they pounded against the wall in  
their mutual frenzy.

"Help! _Help!"_

Only the echoes of their cries answered them.

At last, knowing definitely that no once would come for them, Carolyn groaned and turned away, collapsing to the floor.

"Oh, God, we're done for, Willie. There's no point anymore."

The way she wrapped her arms around her legs, her hair spilling over them as she wore a look of resigned misery,  
reminded Willie of her helplessness in the Old House's basement.

He instinctively knelt down beside her, taking her gently in his arms. "Oh, Carolyn, this is all my fault. All of it."

She leaned her head against his shoulder, too distraught to care how it might look to him. "What does it all mean,  
Willie?"

Willie, too, had become resigned to the fact they would slowly die in this dark, lonely place, and felt it served no purpose  
to keep anything from her. Still, it was with tentative, stuttering words that he began, right from where everything started:  
the room they were in now, with the opening of Josette's coffin.

Though her numb expression never changed, Carolyn's eyes grew wider and wider as he continued his harrowing truth.

"My God," she whispered at last, shivering.

Tears stung Willie's eyes as he watched her, caressing her with his gaze. "Carolyn," he practically moaned. "Carolyn, all I  
ever wanted to do once this whole thing started was protect you. Ever…ever since I saw how brave and vulnerable you  
were down in that cell, I…I…." his voice choked and he buried his face in her blonde hair. "Carolyn, I love you so."

Carolyn felt the pressure of his arms secure around her, felt the sobs racking his frame, the strange contrast of  
helplessness and strength inside him.

She reached out an uncertain hand to stroke his cheek, but suddenly froze, gasping.

That connection, that deep, psychic tie to what she now knew was Josette, that had stirred her to glance out her window  
and follow Willie here, seized her once more.

"Carolyn?" Willie looked at her alarmed. "What is it?"

She felt like she was staring down a dimly lit corridor. Yet it was a hall without walls or floors, a misty place she was  
floating down as she heard a far-off voice say—

"Turn the right candleholder to the left!" She sat up straight.

"….What?"

She was on her feet again, and stumbled like a sleepwalker toward that very candleholder. She pointed at it unsteadily,  
forehead creased as she struggled to recollect. "…One half of the floor will open up as a sort of trap door, and if you  
follow the passage below, you'll come out to a wall you must slide open, and there will be the second story of the new  
house!"

Willie stared at her confounded. "New house? Carolyn, what the hell are you talking about?"

She shook her head. "Er, Collinwood! Whatever! Willie!" She clasped his wrist excitedly, eyes wild. "I get it now. I  
understand. If what you tell me is true, that Josette…" She swallowed down a sudden surge of nausea. _"…Fed_ on me as  
you said, on such a constant basis, and you say that that's how she controls people, by getting…getting sort of inside  
them…then…. _I_ must have some Josette inside _me_!"

He was still perplexed. "I don't understand."

"Neither do I, not really. All I know is that since coming back to Collinwood I've felt someone else inside me, experienced  
thoughts and memories and feelings not my own. And right now, whatever that presence is, is telling me without a doubt  
to turn that candleholder to the left!" She pointed again, this time with conviction.

After a pause, Willie shrugged. "I…I guess there's no harm tryin'."

Carolyn blew out the candle, and struggling together, she and Willie succeeded in turning the rusted holder.

A few inches in front of them, the earth opened below.

Paul felt nothing but a cold hardness as he traced the large figure of a pentagram on his bedroom floor in thick white  
chalk, candles lit at every point. All other lights in the room were off.

At last he knelt at the center, Nicholas Blair's manuscript in his hands. Paul had thus far followed the instructions  
perfectly.

Paul didn't know why this paper would return his daughter to him safely, or wreak revenge on those who kept taking her  
away. Nor did he question it.

He simply knew.

He felt like he was soaring high above himself, watching from some darkened corner of the ceiling as he bent closer to  
the candles in order to better read the incantation.

He opened his lips and began to speak.

At first he had some trouble pronouncing the Latin, or Greek, or whatever language it was.

Then, all at once, he stiffened. Or some force from outside stiffened _him._

A voice stronger and surer than his flew from his throat and began reciting the words more fluently, and faster.  
The candles blew out, but a green glow remained.

The words still came, faster, faster.

Paul's body rocked back and forth, shivered, as this foreign voice tore out of him with increased speed. His nose started  
bleeding, his eyes flickered.

The room began to shake. The words still came, regardless.

Paul squeezed shut his eyes in apparent agony as the room shook more and more violently, the voice nearing the end of  
the incantation at a feverish pitch. A wind blew around him.

Just as he was about to start the last line, his eyes flew open. The blue eyes, so like his daughter's, were now black and  
witchy.

Then the door banged open, and a loud "NO!" brought the blue back in a flash.

David turned on the light, panting in his pajamas.

Paul too breathed heavily, feeling like a great presence had been ripped violently out of him.

"What…what…I…?" He stared at the manuscript in his hands. Then David ran forward and grabbed it away and began  
tearing fretfully at the pages. "It was Stefan, Uncle Paul! Stefan, he woke me up to say some horrible jerk named…  
uh… _Nicholas Blair_ was using _you_ , your body, to come back to life!"

These words brought Paul back fully. He stared at the boy. "What?" He whispered.

David pointed at the tattered remains of the manuscript. "This stuff right here! Stefan told me that this Blair guy was some  
sort of…a…a…aw, damn. What's the boy name for a witch?"

"Warlock," Paul said softly without emotion.

"Yeah, warlock, or sorcerer. This Blair, he, he wanted to make sure that no matter who got their hands on this and  
wanted to use it, he'd be the one actually doing the dirty work, by po… _possessing_ whoever read this stuff aloud!"

Paul shook his head, mouth open. "But that's"— He stopped himself. That's _what?_ Ridiculous? Could Paul really make  
that claim when he, himself, was kneeling down at this moment in a pentagram he made with his own hands, led by the  
belief those papers did indeed contain some power? If he was willing to believe _that_ much based on no evidence, why  
shouldn't he at least take into consideration what the lad said? Especially after what Paul had experienced in the  
pentagram, when he felt his own spirit shrinking into nothing as something else took over.

Besides, how else explain why David knew what Paul was doing?

Before he could address either David or his own internal queries, there was a strange heavy grating noise in the hall.

Looking at each other perplexed, in a way that made them equals despite differences in age and experience, Paul and  
David raced out the bedroom.

They stood back in numb astonishment as the bookcase swung slowly open.

Paul's exclamation was so glad and joyous it was heartrending.

Carolyn and Willie, bedraggled and covered in dirt but beaming in exhausted relief, stumbled out into the hall, Carolyn  
into her father's arms.

"Oh, my pet, my pet," he said into her hair, glazed eyes raised to the ceiling.

In overlapping voices each party told their stories in-between gulps of breath. Their unbelievable tales—given all that had  
occurred—were soon believed.

They were about to descend downstairs to find Elizabeth in perfect hysterical happiness when Carolyn noticed her  
father's face go white.

"Father, what is it?"

He turned back to his room. "I…I was just wondering…."

"What?"

"I felt that man…that man Nicholas Blair inside me, coming out of the pages into the room when I was speaking…"

"But Father, that's over now. Don't think about it."

He shook his head doubtfully. "No. No, my darlin', I don't think it is over. I think he did come out, and while he's certainly  
not inside me…." His face was stony with worry. "He's somewhere else now. But _where_?"

* * *

 **A/N: To kindly reviewer Ashley who asked if the cover for this story is from 1936's Dracula's Daughter, I can reply in the**  
 **affirmative! I haven't seen the movie in years and years, not since when it was one of my favorites as a very wee child. But**  
 **I vaguely remember loving it to pieces, and when looking for appropriate images for this story, this picture of lovely Gloria**  
 **Holden seemed appropriate (Universal Studios Horror, Hammer Horror, Phantom of the Opera, and Dark Shadows was**  
 **what this kid was raised on! Kind of explains a lot, right?).**


	14. Chapter 14

_*****1795*****_

"Shh!" Daniel hissed at Stefan, who was noodling at his flute.

The boys crouched in the hallway upstairs, pretending themselves invisible. They watched the servants carry the vast  
array of furniture and knick-knacks Barnabas had ordered from Boston, storing them in the spare rooms in the Great House until the New House was completed.

The past few days were boring for the boys as Barnabas exhibited the various wedding presents he'd accumulated for  
he and Josette from that active city, all objects for furnishing their new home. The boys had made retching noises to  
each other as they hid outside the future master bedroom at the New House, as Barnabas revealed to Josette her  
portrait hanging above the bed, that he secretly sent for from Martinique. Josette had rewarded her lover with a long kiss,  
then turned and scolded the two young scoundrels who couldn't bite back their laughter.

Stefan and Daniel grew close through their boredom. Part of their camaraderie was rooted in proximity, while the rest  
lied in the delicate balance of their contrasting qualities that complemented each other well. Daniel was taciturn and  
moody for his young age, whereas Stefan was unusually sunny and demonstrative for his. Daniel was a realist, Stefan  
an idealist. Daniel took charge of their activities, deciding what war they were fighting and what monster they were killing,  
while Stefan fleshed out detail and character.

Nicholas Blair sauntered past the pair, lugging his knapsack over his shoulder. His efforts to dodge a chesterfield two  
servants were strenuously waddling down the hall jostled his bag, releasing a small wooden figure, falling to the floor  
unbeknownst to the valet.

In the confusion as Blair urged the servants on tersely as they responded in kind, Daniel and Stefan snuck forward and  
inspected the object.

"Why, it's a toy soldier!" Stefan announced as Daniel picked it up.

Daniel wrinkled his nose critically. "Looks old. See the paint chipping off? And that uniform's not from the Revolution." He  
straightened proudly. "Cousin Barnabas fought in that war, you know."

Each gasped as a quick sleek hand wrenched the doll out of Daniel's hand. Nicholas's thin smile and dancing eyes  
gleamed down at them. "Indeed he did, Master Daniel. A very brave, fine soldier, your cousin was. This is his little  
soldier, back from when he was hardly your age, I should think."

"What are you doing with that doll, Monsieur Blair?" Stefan asked innocently.

Smile still stiffly in place, Nicholas pat him rapidly on the head. "I found this fellow when I was organizing Master  
Barnabas's old things in the basement a few months ago, just after we'd gotten back from Martinique." He leaned in and  
whispered. "I couldn't help but think it would make a jolly wedding present. Don't you agree? Nice reminder of his youth."  
Eyebrows up confidingly, he raised a finger to his lips. "So not a word from either of you young gentlemen, you hear?  
That would ruin the surprise!"

They promised him their silence, then watched as he made his way to his room.

"That's nice of him," Stefan said carelessly, playing a bar of "Frere Jacques" on his flute.

* * *

Nicholas sat the doll on his dresser, examining it from where he sat on his bed. He sat staring for a long time.

Yes, Barnabas Collins had been a very fine soldier. Who wouldn't at age 22, when your duties are limited to supervising  
a small gang of slack-jawed locals at the seaside when the war was in its very last days?

Nicholas's nostrils flared almost unperceptively. Deep within him was a nugget of genuine affection for his employer. The man had saved his life without question or judgment, and had treated him as a trusted friend, granting him countless privileges.

Yet what were those paltry privileges compared to those _Master Barnabas_ enjoyed?

This Collins son had never known suffering, true suffering. Nicholas had seen countless bloody wars over countless  
centuries, had even fought in a few of them, for a lark.

Before he'd inevitably been discovered, then run out.

 _Run out._ That phrase had hounded Nicholas Blair continually as he struggled to find a haven in this life. Run out. He'd  
narrowly avoided countless lynchings, burnings, and stonings, not to mention the most recent toss overboard.

Yet Nicholas had prevailed. Each time. And from across different continents he'd exacted revenge, each time….  
He kept staring at the doll.

He assumed that, eventually, he would be discovered and run out again. Yet this time, _this time_ , he would have a  
companion in exile.

"Josette," he whispered aloud without realizing. She was his beacon, his light at the end of the dark, lonely tunnel that  
was his life, his soul. She was a song in human form, an angel with a spark of fire that would both soothe and excite  
him, for ages and ages to come.

Since the moment he first saw her, as he stood respectfully behind his master that day at her father's plantation, he'd  
known she was his salvation. Her empathy, her sweetness, her vivacity was for Nicholas and Nicholas alone, the  
musical voice and those gay eyes all his. She was a beautiful doll gifted with life, a fantastical Galatea.

As Nicholas had no outlet to express his affection given his low station beneath hers, his love had without his knowing  
turned into the most violent of obsessions. Yet he retained enough honest regard for her to desire not to exercise his  
 _certain abilities_ on her; she must come to him willingly.

But first he must dissuade her from her childish infatuation with Barnabas. This he knew he had accomplished with  
those short hours of divine bliss in his quarters in Martinique—oh, the happiest, richest hours of his long life!

He had not been surprised at her sheepish behavior immediately after. She was reared a modest young thing, and so  
naturally she was reticent. She was afraid of her newfound power, her sexual power combined with his. He was  
convinced that after she had fully reflected on the passion they shared, she would return to him the following morning, or  
the next evening, or the morning after. She could not deny their connection, the sweet lust that masked the deepest love.

Yet she had not.

She refused to look him in the eye.

She avoided him.

After a fortnight of her absolute refusal to acknowledge him, as she continued her engagement with a renewed display of  
tenderness for Barnabas, rage howled inside Nicholas.

He felt as if his own heart had leapt out of his body and smote him a fatal blow, then stood back laughing as he faded  
away. Love in those moments turned into the most exquisite hatred.

He had attacked with a ferocity foreign to his sedate nature a manuscript of black magic, designed to revive him into an  
even stronger force than he was now, powered by the eventual destruction of Josette DuPres.  
Crafting such ancient evil sapped him of energy.

After locking away the thick manuscript into his desk, he sighed, his hollowed eyes empty.

And he had gone to sleep.

The next morning his eyes flew open in horror.

He remembered the previous day as if it were a haze of drunken debauchery, full of regret.

How…how could he even consider harming her who was his life? She, his angel of light and darkness, his beloved little  
Josette? No. No. Obviously, her avoidance was a temporary measure, her reticence merely lasting longer than he had  
expected. After all, this reticence was most likely compounded with her anger that Nicholas had deceived her about  
Barnabas and the idiot-poppet Millicent. Women are peculiar creatures in how highly they value honesty in their mates;  
she would need a much longer time to recover, that's all.

And Nicholas was willing to wait.

Yet still, still, there nagged at the back of Nicholas's mind vague doubts that he could not name. Therefore, he couldn't  
bring himself to destroy the manuscript, not yet.

He carried the pages with him back to America, hiding them in plain sight: on top of his chest of drawers among the rest  
of his papers.

However, he was sure they were unnecessary. He stared at the doll again. There were other options he could explore  
first if Josette still proved unreasonable.

He started at the knock on his door.

Triumph surged in his heart as he opened to reveal Josette standing there, as pale and resolute as the first time she'd  
come to his room in Martinique.

"May I come in?" She asked, her words again mimicking perfectly their one day of bliss. Surely this was the sequel.  
He bowed once more, allowing her in.

Only this time, he would not be so formal. "Darling," he whispered as soon as he closed the door, pulling her into his  
embrace.

She pushed him away, moving to the far side of the room, dodging his gaze. "Keep your hands off of me, Monsieur." Her  
voice was hard.

Nicholas frowned. "Beloved, need we put on such fronts? I have saved money. We can run away whenever and wherever  
you wish."

For the first time since that faraway day at Martinique, her eyes met his. They were questioning. "Nicholas," she began.  
His heart raced again optimistically. She had never used his Christian name before. "Nicholas, are you serious? You  
truly care enough to want to run away with me?"

He gave what was perhaps the first real smile of his life to her. "Of course, my darling! Oh, how could you doubt me? I  
meant every word I said that day. I love you, Josette. Really and truly I love you."

"Oh, Nicholas," she said quietly. "For the first time I feel not just anger for you, but pity, too. I quite pity you." That sad pity  
was plain in her face.

Ice chilled his veins. "…What?"

She looked at the floor, collecting her thoughts. Then she swallowed and met his gaze again. "Monsieur Blair, I  
command you to forget such thoughts. They are inappropriate in the extreme. _You_ have been inappropriate in the  
extreme. You behaved as dishonorably as ever man did that fateful day, casting aspersions not only on my fiancé and  
your employer and friend, but on a defenseless dead girl, all to seduce me vilely. Many times I have been tempted to  
reveal your treachery to Barnabas. But," her voice gentled only slightly. "But, seeing that I do believe now you acted out of  
a misplaced affection for me, I will not risk your position that way. We shall forget Martinique, and start anew, I as the  
future wife of your employer."

"But, dearest, I"-

"Enough," she said sharply. "We are done, Nicholas Blair. We were never anything to begin with."

"HAH!" Nicholas's eyes blazed at her, and she shivered at the sight of his rigid form. He was desperately holding back  
tremors, tremors that still showed in the tight fists at his sides. "Coward! Hypocrite!" He spat at her in a queerly twisted  
voice. "Tell the truth, Mademoiselle. You keep quiet not for my sake, but yours. I would be ruined, yes, but so would you! And _that_ is what you really fear."

She closed her eyes and dropped her head to her chest. "All right," she said quietly. "That is part of it, too."

"Part? All!" Nicholas insisted, and Josette signaled him to lower his voice. Yet he continued, eyes mad and words  
venomous. "You are concerned solely with your angelic image, Mademoiselle. That is why you stay with him when clearly  
I am the one you desire. The great Mademoiselle DuPres would not deign to elope with a servant, oh no! Why lose all of  
Collinwood, all of Collinsport, for true love, after all!"

"You know not of what you speak!" She shot back at him, her temper rising. "I would love Barnabas even if he were a  
pauper! I am not so class conscious as that, Monsieur! But you took advantage of me when I was vulnerable! That is  
behavior unworthy of the highest king!"

He was beyond hearing her. "Yes, you turn from love to riches, my poor misguided pet. But stay, I will not let you ruin your  
life thus." His dark eyes narrowed mistily. "You will be mine, Josette. This I swear. No matter what I have to do." He  
leaned in and whispered huskily in her ear. _"No matter who stands in our way."_

There was no mistaking the violence in his tone. She stared at him for one moment in terror. Then emitting a low cry she  
ran, slamming the door behind her.

Nicholas panted, disoriented for a moment. Then he walked slowly to his dresser, picking up the toy soldier that Josette  
had not seen.

"Yes," he said, regarding the object. "You will be mine very soon."

* * *

Josette paced her room, fearing all sorts of nameless visions and sensations Blair had evoked with his mad words.

Why, why did she let him scare her so? What could he do, after all? But what _couldn't_ he do? He was mad, that was  
clear. And mad men were capable of anything.

She clasped an angry hand to her forehead. Oh, if only she _weren't_ a coward, _weren't_ a hypocrite. She could seek out  
Barnabas right now and denounce Blair, no matter what the cost to her!

But the thought of losing Barnabas—

Oh, why not lose the ability to breathe, to live?

Josette gnawed absently on her fingernails. She must protect herself. Oh, quite possibly Blair was all bluster, but how  
could she be sure?

She remembered the collection in one of the small rooms downstairs Joshua Collins had proudly shown she and her  
father their first day here. Yes. Yes, there was a way to protect herself in case Blair was serious in his threats, though  
she loathed doing it.

She waited until she was certain the house was asleep. Then she slipped downstairs, her wrap tied snugly about her.


	15. Chapter 15

_****1795****_

Josette slept poorly that night, suspicious of every noise and plagued by fitful dreams. So it was a pale face with faint  
dark rings under the eyes that greeted Barnabas downstairs in the drawing room next morning.

Despite her emotional distress, Josette couldn't help her small impish grin at the sight of her beloved standing with his  
ever-present wolf-headed cane, just like in the painting hanging over the mantelpiece behind him. Josette was endlessly  
amused by how the haughty, cold, sophisticated expression in the painting so varied from the animated warmth in the  
real face.

When Josette first arrived, she teasingly questioned Barnabas as to why his likeness graced the hearth and not the true  
owner of the manor, his father. Barnabas answered sheepishly that his mother had been so taken with the finished  
portrait that for one of the few times in her marriage she put her foot down and insisted it take the place of honor. Joshua,  
for all his faults, was not an overly vain man when it came to such trifles as artistic renderings of his physical splendor  
(business, however, was another matter). And so he had let his wife win this small battle, knowing he conquered the war  
in general.

Barnabas reached out both hands to Josette as she entered the drawing room. "How now, my sweet? Are you sure  
you're well? You look white as a sheet, and I've noticed you seem rather nervous and out of sorts lately."

"Oh," Josette demurred, "Most brides are when planning their weddings, you know. What with having to meet with the  
florists today and going over the guest list with your mother, I'm just preoccupied, that's all."

His eyes gleamed merrily. "Well, then, let me take your mind off it all for a bit. Come." He led her to the small table by his  
father's armchair, where rested a small, ornately wrapped present. "I intended to save this as a proper wedding present,  
but I cannot wait."

"Oh, Barnabas!" She said. "You shouldn't have, my darling! You've already presented me with that new set of beautiful  
furniture, that should be enough." Nevertheless she unwrapped the gift and gasped at the smoothly polished golden  
object, with its diamond-inlaid lid. "Mon Dieu, Barnabas! It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen!"

"Open the lid," he whispered in her ear.

She gasped anew at the sweet tune floating out. "My favorite minuet! _Cheri!"_ Smiling more ecstatically than she had in  
days, she kissed Barnabas firmly on the cheek. He laughed as he took her in his arms, the music box playing against  
his chest.

Josette shook her head happily. "Oh, _mon cher_ , this is positively the dearest present anyone ever gave me, but…well…I  
hate to bring up something so base as money at a time like this, but on top of all the furniture, how did you"—

"—Afford this little _bijou_? I'll tell you a secret: my father's prudence extends not only to constructing secret passageways  
for family members to escape rabble-rousing villagers through. Also hidden away behind the walls in the basement are  
diamonds, gold nuggets, rubies, and the like. You see, my pet, the Collins inheritance takes many forms. I decided  
dipping into it to a small extent was worth it for the look on your face right now." He stared down fondly at her.

She smiled dreamily in return, then rested her head on his shoulder as she placed the music box back delicately on the  
small table. They both listened silently to its refrain.

They were a picture of absolute romantic serenity.

Nicholas Blair observed them unseen from his position on the stairs.

Josette's frigid words of hatred yesterday were juxtaposed in his mind with the warmhearted tenderness she displayed  
now in her lover's embrace.

Something snapped in his heart and from his viewpoint a ring of fire surrounded the pair.

He slowly and resolutely made his quiet way upstairs to his room.

* * *

He picked up the toy soldier from where it still perched by his bed. In Nicholas's other hand was a handkerchief  
monogrammed "B.C.", stolen from his employer's laundry.

Muttering quietly to himself, Nicholas wrapped the handkerchief around the soldier's wooden neck. Then he wrapped it  
around again. Then he pulled it taut.

* * *

Josette traced a finger absently over the side of the music box, soft music lulling her. Barnabas squeezed her shoulder  
gently. He then turned her around and tilted her chin up, staring into her eyes. They kissed.

In that moment she forgot dark specters of shame, betrayal, and witchy black eyes. She only knew she felt safe. She felt  
the splendor of a cliff high above crashing waves, ghost stories to a child, a hearty laugh. She felt a solid, pulsating love  
envelop her.

All at once Josette felt Barnabas's warmth tear away from her in a harsh gasp. Alarmed, her eyes flew open and she saw  
him reach blindly for his throat, mouth gaping, and eyes wide. He was struggling for breath.

"Barnabas!" Josette called out, clutching his arm. "What is wrong, darling?"

He barely managed to choke out, "I can't…I can't _breathe_!"

* * *

There was a strange tenderness in Nicholas's voice as he swayed back and forth, alternating between loosening his  
grip just a mite, allowing teasing moments of breath, and tightening the knot again.

The words he spoke were unintelligible. His expression was alarmingly passive.

* * *

"Help! _Help! Someone come quickly, please!"_ Josette cried out. She raced back and forth like a frightened animal from  
the stairs, screaming for help, and back again to her lover's side. Barnabas collapsed to his knees, now faintly blue in  
the face as he continued choking for air.

At last the household arrived, including Joshua, Andre, Naomi, and a handful of servants. Naomi stood shocked with a  
hand over her mouth as her husband, Josette's father, and the butler helped the weakening Barnabas to his feet,  
leading him stumbling to his bedroom upstairs. Mother and fiancée were at their heels, and stood almost as breathless  
as he in the doorway.

The music box played on below to an empty audience.

Josette stared at her love curled up in agony on the bed, fingers clawing at his throat. She snapped out of her stupor, running to him, loosening his cravat and unbuttoning the top of his shirt. His wide eyes stared pleadingly at her, while his breath still came out in sickly spurts.

"Get a doctor!" She yelled at the room in general.

The servants obeyed, leaving the Collins and DuPres families to stare in helpless horror at the wincing, choking man.  
No one noticed Nicholas's absence.

As Joshua and Andre tried prying some sort of coherent speech out of Barnabas, Josette and Naomi clung to each  
other, tears flowing down their cheeks.

"Father, Father!" Josette cried out to Andre, the Frenchman listening closely to Barnabas's panicked breaths. "What is it?"

Andre turned a grave face to his daughter. "I don't know, _ma petite fille_. But if nothing is done soon, Barnabas will die."


	16. Chapter 16

_****1795****_

Her father's words spun around Josette like comets orbiting a frozen planet. "Die?" She repeated the word in shock as if  
Andre had sworn at his daughter. "Die…."

Her head swam, and if it weren't for Naomi's fingers digging into her arms, keeping her upright, Josette was unsure her  
legs would have supported her.

Josette stared at the lone figure on the bed, body contorting as he stretched outward wandering hands, fighting for  
breath.

She turned helplessly to the equally distraught woman beside her. "What do we do? What do we do?" Josette pleaded in  
a voice so childlike she might have used it with her own mother.

Lips white and eyes locked on her son, Naomi gently released Josette and sank to her knees by the bed. "We pray, my  
child. We pray." With these low words, Naomi closed her eyes and bowed her head to her chest, hands folded over the  
cross around her neck. For once, Joshua had no fierce rebuke for his wife. He instead motioned Andre to join him near  
the wall, giving the tortured mother space and privacy.

Josette watched her dumbly for a moment. By nature, Josette was not overly religious. She attended church regularly like  
a well-bred lady of her status should, and believed, in a rather abstract way, that some higher power or another must be  
in charge of things. But not since childhood did she take time out to pray for some heavenly reward; like her fiancé,  
Josette felt anything you earned by means other than your own wasn't worth having, even from God above.

Yet feeling more vulnerable and afraid than she ever had in her life, Josette reverted immediately to her childhood ways.  
"Yes…pray…I must pray…." It had been so long she forgot the proper way to go about it, and studied Naomi closely. She  
saw the cross clutched in the other woman's hand. "Yes!" Josette exclaimed. "My mother's cross!"

She sped out, Barnabas's gasps hounding her retreating steps.

Josette's bedroom door banged open as she flew inside. She tore open the dresser drawers, save one. She tossed  
about handkerchiefs and items of clothing, searching for the crucifix she had inherited from her devout mother. "Where is  
it, where is it," she hissed to herself in a voice less angelic than one would usually use in pursuit of such a keepsake.

She was focusing all her worry, her frenzy into the search, and when she emptied the last drawer without sight of the  
heirloom, Josette felt her nerves on the verge of collapse. "Where, where?"

 _"You are looking for this, I assume?"_

Josette turned to the figure in the doorway.

She instinctively recoiled at the feline smile twisting Nicholas Blair's handsome face into something rictus-like and  
awful. In one hand he held a toy soldier with a handkerchief wrapped around the throat. In the other that he held out with  
mocking solicitude, dangled her cross.

"You women are so predictable, Josette," he said contemptuously. "I knew you'd come running for this. Without anything  
useful to do, you turn to Faith, to that deity who has no time for such nonsense." He carelessly tossed the cross onto the  
bed.

"Believe me, Josette," he answered in deliberate tones to her stunned, perplexed gaze. "Your God has no place here.  
Only I." With that, he pulled tight the handkerchief, and Josette heard from down the hall a deep guttural cry from

Barnabas before it was smothered in more choking.

Horror pounded in her stomach. "What are you doing?" She demanded.

He relaxed his hold, and Josette heard a loud sigh of relief from Barnabas's room. "I am taking what is mine. Josette, do  
you know how many centuries I have been searching for you? How many lifetimes I passed listlessly, all due to a rash  
deal I made with forces beyond either of our comprehensions? I thought I lusted for power, but as the years and  
decades passed, loneliness was my only ally, my only companion. All I looked for was a soul, a true, beautiful, defiant  
soul I could call my own, find solace in." He tilted his head as he gazed at her, and in an almost casual, conversational  
way he asked, "Do you really think I'd let you go once I found you?"

Josette, as if in a dream, pointed a wavering finger at him. "You…you're not human."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Yes, I thought we'd established that by now. I am what you'd crudely call a sorcerer, or a  
warlock. Have been for a very, very long time."

She shook her head wildly. "It can't be true. It can't."

"Can't it?" He pulled the handkerchief again and laughed harshly as she begged him to stop, haunted by the far-off  
sounds of Barnabas's struggles. "Now _you_ plead for _my_ mercy. Yes, I like this scenario far better."

When the love of one's life is in peril, even the presence of the supernatural is not enough to quell one's strength and  
determination. "What do you want of me? What can I do to save him?" She asked immediately.

She knew the answer, of course. And he knew she knew.

"Be mine," he said regardless. She shivered at the relish he took in saying those two words.

She appeared to be retreating into herself as she backed away from him, near the dresser. Her head was down. "If…if I  
promise to be yours…you promise in turn to let him live?"

"Yes. I find no particular joy in killing Barnabas. He's been kind to me. But I cannot let him live while you're still his."

She nodded solemnly. She stared doggedly at the floor, breathing heavily. Moments that felt longer than the centuries  
he'd lived passed before Nicholas received his answer. Sighing brokenly, she said at last, "Very well. I will be yours,  
Nicholas. So long as we both do live."

His eyes blazed with triumph. "My darling!" He dropped the toy soldier, the handkerchief unloosed.

Then he jerked back as the bullet tore through his chest.

He stared at Josette. With steady hand she held Joshua Collins's pistol, taken from where she had hidden it in the one  
drawer she had not opened in her search for the cross. "So long as we both do live." She said in a hard voice he had  
never heard her use.

He collapsed to his knees. The lights were fading. His dreams shattered like a mirror around him.

All left was a haze of hate.

Sounding now much like the struggling Barnabas, Nicholas rasped, "So long as we both do live, my love. For my kind  
does not die like yours. I shall be your curse, my darling. And you will live forever at my will. You shall never know rest,  
Josette. And as you are mine— _mine_ —you can never belong to anyone else. Anyone else who dares claim your love  
shall elude you, violently, terribly—and you shall have to watch helpless, unable to join them." As his eyes closed, he  
murmured, "You shall feel my curse soon, my beloved. Soon." Then his body keeled over, and he spoke no more.  
Josette's upright body was as still as his dead one. The gun smoke still floated in the air like a storm cloud.

For a moment she was confused at what she thought was the sound of approaching thunderclaps. Then she realized  
what she heard was a stampede of feet rushing in at the sound of gunfire.

Her doorway was crowded with shocked onlookers. Andre, Joshua, Naomi, the butler, two screaming servant girls, and,  
to her mild surprise, Nathan Forbes stared aghast at the corpse of Nicholas Blair lying on the floor, and the faint red pool  
gathering beneath him.

Then they lifted their eyes to her.

The gun slid from her fingers.

"Yes," she answered their unspoken question. "I killed him."

Andre rushed forward, shaking her by the arms. _"Ma chere, ma chere!_ Are you mad? What are you saying? What have  
you done?" He stared at her in agony.

With a strange, detached disinterest she looked vaguely at Forbes, who was kneeling down to check Nicholas's pulse.

"What is he doing here, Father?"

At this irrelevant inquiry, many were obliged to indeed think the girl had gone mad. Clearing his throat, Forbes answered  
her. "I was called in by your fiancé's father to investigate Mr. Barnabas's sudden illness, his father suspecting poison."

She shook her head. "No. Not poisoned. Well, yes. In a way. Bewitched."

More stunned faces studied her.

Forbes blinked. "Bewitched, Miss?"

She stared with quiet loathing at Nicholas Blair. "By him. He is a sorcerer. That toy soldier beside him…he was  
manipulating it with his handkerchief to torture Barnabas."

A servant girl crossed herself. Another said, "Yes! I am sure she is right! We in the servant quarters have been sure for  
years something was off about him! He always kept to himself and terrible things happened around him! Katie," she  
turned to her trembling mate beside her. "Remember when the cat hissed at him and later the poor creature strangled  
itself in a ball of yarn?"

The girl nodded, mouth open. "And two weeks after Lizzie spilled hot tea on him, her hair turned gray."

The butler coughed. "Let us not forget, ladies, about the cook's dry turkey and his subsequent dyspepsia." The servants  
and their masters whispered amongst themselves and crossed themselves anew.

Nathan Forbes rolled his eyes. "If we can please restrain ourselves from succumbing to hysteria, I should like to remind  
those present that this is a matter for the law, not some gossipy crucible." A handsome, blocky man, his face now wore  
the studied look of authority he'd practiced over the years to assert his superiority. "I am afraid pending a proper trial,  
Miss, I shall have to take you into custody," he addressed Josette.

"NO!" Andre cried, clasping her to him. "You blackguard, you've heard these people's testimony! My daughter is guilty only  
of ridding this house of an evil presence! She should be lauded, not thrown in jail like a common criminal!"

At this moment, the doctor entered. So puzzled and amazed was he that he gave no sign he was aware a corpse lied  
practically at his feet. "Mr. Collins," he said to Joshua. "A most extraordinary change has occurred in your son! He's…  
well, I don't think it's too soon to say he's recovered! His breathing is even and his pulse is steady. He's exhausted, but  
other than that, there's no sign he was ever taken ill!"

Again, the congregation took turns studying Nicholas, then Josette.

At last, Andre broke the silence. "HAH! You see? The man _was_ a sorcerer! And my daughter broke his spell! You have to  
let her go free now!"

With less assurance than before, Forbes nonetheless persisted in his previous line. "That very well may be true, sir, but  
the law in this country states"—

"Blast the law in this wretched country! Do you know who I am? Do you know how much land I owned in Martinique? I"—

Josette cut in, asking quietly of the doctor, "You are sure Barnabas is out of danger?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle."

She nodded. "Then it is all right, Father. I will go with Lt. Forbes."

She stepped forward, allowing Forbes to steer her by the shoulder through the crowd and out the door.

So dreamlike was her mood she barely heard her father's frantic voice following her.

"Josette! _Josette_!"

* * *

Given the prestige Josette's name carried, she was accordingly given the roomiest cell in Collinsport's jail. Although, due  
to the town's rustic nature, even the largest cell was far from comfortable, but Josette idly thought it did quite nicely. Her  
father had been by to protest that she had only been acting in self-defense, and Joshua Collins tried bargaining for her  
bail. Yet she had overseen it all serenely, as if she were on a cloud floating above them.

Josette did not care if she was exonerated or if she was hanged. No matter what happened to her, Barnabas was alive.  
His life, that strong, silver thread, was her only care, her only lifeline. So long as Barnabas was safe, let the roof cave in  
and crush her for all she cared.

It was now nearing midnight. Two guards waited outside, and she could hear them shuffling cards at the table and  
swapping curses with each other.

 _Curses._

She rolled over uneasily on her cot. She could not forget Nicholas's words.

Through the barred window, she saw the dark blue midnight sky, and the large yellow blot that was the moon.

She shut tight her eyes, willing herself to dwell on Barnabas's safety, their possible future, anything, _anything_ but  
Nicholas's dying words.

But unbidden, his voice conquered her mind.

 _"So long as we both do live, my love."_

 _"You shall never know rest."_

 _"Anyone else who dares claim your love shall elude you, violently, terribly."_

 _"You shall feel my curse soon, my beloved. SOON."_

Josette's eyes jerked open with a start. That last one…that last one was not in her head. She had just heard Nicholas's  
voice speak aloud.

 _"Soon."_

Trying to call for the guards but not finding her voice, she twisted around and stared outside.

 _"Soon."_

Yes, that's where the voice was coming from. Shaking violently, she approached the window and clutched the bars.

 _"Soon."_

She was about to address the voice in tremulous but venomous tones when another sound reached her from outside.  
For a moment she couldn't decipher what she heard. The sound was rushed, whispery, almost like someone panting.

Then she realized it was the flapping of wings.

These wings flit nearer. She could almost feel the wind lapping against her face from the beating appendages.

Underlying these rapid movements now was a faint squeaking, like a rodent.

Josette pressed her face against the bars, squinting into the night, trying to make out the shape hovering unnaturally  
there.

A bat.

A bat that was flying nearer and nearer to the bars, until she could look into its red eyes, staring fiery holes into her own.

A hypnotized terror kept her rooted on the spot.

 _"Now, my love."_

The bat was suddenly in the cell with her. How, she could not tell. But it's clawed wings were caught in her hair. She saw  
the fangs for only a moment.

* * *

From outside her cell, the guards dropped their cards at her screams. Wiping their mouths of the rum they were  
forbidden from imbibing in, they felt for their swords and grabbed their muskets. They raced to the door, fumbling with the  
keys as her screams intensified.

All of a sudden there was silence.

The guards stared at each other.

"Mademoiselle? Are you all right?"

They slid open the grate at the top of the door.

Her candle had been snuffed out. Neither man could make out anything, even with their lantern. All they could hear was a  
slight flapping growing fainter and fainter until it disappeared altogether, and a heavy labored breathing.

They finally unlocked the door and entered. They raised the lantern.

Their screams spread into the forest outside.


	17. Chapter 17

_*****1795*****_

Earlier that morning, Stefan and Daniel had been woken with a jolt by the housekeeper. With a taut gray face, the old lady  
told them in clipped words that Daniel's cousin had taken gravely ill, and unless they were very naughty little devils, they  
would stay here in the nursery and not cause any trouble. She left them burnt toast and scorched eggs, plopped down  
clumsily on a tray. She didn't bother to help them dress, hurrying out, leaving the door open a crack.

Stefan and Daniel exchanged one mystified glance. Then in a simultaneous leap they pressed their faces to the crack in  
the door, peering out at the various feet scurrying past them.

Although Daniel admired and loved his cousin, it was Stefan who sniffled and mourned the possibility of Barnabas's  
death; Daniel was of the personality to be at this stage too intoxicated with the morbid adventure of it all. He urged Stefan  
to forget the housekeeper's warning and venture out to explore the situation, but Stefan pulled back, eyes wide. He was  
more frightened of the specter of losing his beloved future brother-in-law than any scolding from the household.

Yet both stiffened as the shot rang out.

The boys ran for shelter under the nearest bed.

They huddled close together. After awhile, Daniel's face reddened in the dark with growing embarrassment as he  
realized he'd run from danger. However, even that embarrassment wasn't enough to budge him from his current  
position. Instead, for once he and not the silently weeping Stefan extended his imagination, and told Stefan in superior  
tones to pull himself together, that they were taking cover from enemy fire, and that any second now they would be  
expected to leap out and fight. His bravado only succeeded in making Stefan practically convulse with fear. The sensitive  
French boy groaned and buried his tear-stained face into the floor.

And so Stefan wept and Daniel stewed, neither moving. A clatter of panicked voices and feet would pass the nursery at  
intervals. After a few hours passed, Daniel at last felt the pangs of hunger that the excitement of the morning had initially  
kept at bay. Hunger trumped fear, and Daniel, lifting his chin as much as the limited space under the bed allowed him,  
announced, "Bah! Enough of this cowering! I'm getting out!"

And he crawled toward the neglected tray.

Stefan, speechless now with grief and fear, remained behind.

"Goodness, this plate is almost inedible! Everything's cold and— _Stefan_!" He interrupted his breakfast tirade to whisper  
hoarsely to his companion. "I think I hear my uncle and your father!"

Stefan immediately scrambled out and flew clumsily to the door. He was afraid of his father, sensing instinctively that  
Andre disapproved of him for unknown reasons. However, Andre was a familiar figure who stood for strength and home  
to the frightened child at this moment.

"What are they saying?"

"Shh!"

They both risked poking their heads out the slightest amount. They could just see Andre and Joshua's figures at the end  
of the hall. Stefan's little heart pounded at the sight of his father's uncharacteristically slumped posture, shoulder's  
drooping, arms dangling. "How...how is your son?" Andre asked in a faraway voice.

"Completely recovered, as the doctor said. He's resting now. We..." It was now Daniel's turn to be unsettled by his  
relative's behavior. His uncle coughed awkwardly and chose his next words carefully, as if Joshua actually cared about  
his companion's emotional state. "We haven't told him yet about...well, about Nicholas, nor...nor about Josette."  
Daniel felt Stefan freeze beside him.

 _"Oui, oui,"_ Andre said wearily, patting Joshua's shoulder distractedly. "That is most certainly for the best right now. And  
perhaps," his voice held a hint of doomed hope. "Perhaps in the morning, that beastly Forbes man will listen to reason  
and let us post bail, and we can put this nightmare behind us."

"What...what?" Stefan spurted out in-between panicky breaths. "What are they talking about?"

"It sounds like your sister is in jail!" Daniel said bluntly, with the insensitive excitement of the average boy his age.

Andre had continually mourned that his young son should be so unlike him in courage and defiance, yet even he would  
have felt a spike of pride at the fire that leaped into Stefan's eyes now. "My sister...in _jail_?"

Daniel stared surprised at the seething figure beside him. Daniel had taken it for granted that Stefan was the weaker  
vessel of the two of them. But even compared to Daniel's stormiest temper tantrums, the fury Stefan possessed now  
surpassed anything Daniel was familiar with.

"Stefan-"

Daniel winced as Stefan grabbed him roughly by the arm. "Where is the jailhouse? Describe it to me!"

Having often tagged along with Barnabas to town, Daniel knew Collinsport almost as well as his cousin, and described  
the location in clear detail. Stefan then grabbed his clothes from the dresser and started peeling off his nightshirt, pulling  
on pants and boots.

Daniel stared at him, mouth agape. "What are you doing?"

Frenzy setting his eyes aflame with a not quite human blaze, Stefan answered, "Saving Josette from the dragons."

He slipped silently out the door.

* * *

That Stefan ever found the jailhouse was a miracle. So dreamy and distracted was the boy's soul that he could walk a  
hundred times down a simple country path with his nurse or Josette and still get lost if he tried to do the same on his  
own.

But there was Andre and Josette's silver cord of courage running through him. Now that his sister's safety called for it,  
Stefan repeated incessantly the directions Daniel had given him, and with a deep gulp, ventured into the woods, where  
no one could see him set out to rescue Josette.

He had always yearned to do something brave, to make Josette truly proud of him. Oh, he knew she loved and adored  
him no matter what, but to actually take her breath away and astound her—and maybe his father, too—that was often a  
fond fantasy of his.

Yet he didn't think of this now. He only thought of her safety, of keeping the only real love and affection in his life alive and  
well.

So he ignored the encroaching night and wolves howling in the distance, of the black branches snagging his clothing.

His body felt what his spirit wouldn't allow, and he trembled with cold and pent-up fright. And yet he kept walking,  
searching for the clearing just outside the town's center where Daniel told him was the jailhouse.

His heart surged triumphantly as he spread apart two branches and saw before him the back of a building with a barred  
window. He had arrived.

And with his arrival, fear and uncertainty crept back in.

He frowned. Now that he was here, what was he to do? Stefan cursed himself for his impulsiveness, his lack of  
planning. How was he to sneak past the guards inside? How was he to get the keys to Josette's cell? What were they to  
do from there, if he were successful in his rescue?

Tears of frustration welled up in his eyes but were stilled by an odd flitting sound outside the bars of that small square  
window. With an equal mixture of curiosity and trepidation, Stefan crept forward, making out a shape.

The shape of an abnormally large and gruesome bat.

Forgetting for a moment his chivalrous intentions, Stefan sped away and hid behind a large tree just outside the jail's  
entrance. He buried his face in his knees, willing his breathing to steady. His feet pressed into the damp grass, and he  
shivered now not only from fear, but from the frigid nighttime.

His head jerked up and a fear unlike any that had gripped his soul yet filled him as he heard the screams.

"Josette..." he whispered weakly. His love and fear for his sister steeled him once more as he stumbled to his feet,  
prepared to lunge in regardless of the consequences.

Then her screams ended.

Stefan stayed rooted to the spot.

Then he covered his ears reflexively as the guards screamed in unison.

Unnameable sounds emitted from the jailhouse, turning Stefan's stomach. They were the death cries of doomed souls.

They howled on seemingly endlessly, and yet Stefan could do no more than back up toward the tree, eyes locked on the  
door.

At last, the men's tortured cries died out with whimpers and gasps. There was stillness, quiet, dreadful stillness.

The sudden shock of the front entrance door unlatched from the inside shook Stefan from his stupor. Gathering what  
wits he still had with him, he hid behind the tree again.

With ethereal silence, the door swung open.

Accustomed to the outside dark, Stefan squinted from the sudden glare of the inside lanterns, and at first all he could  
make out was a woman's silhouette in the doorway.

He cast his gaze downward, and as his eyes adjusted to the light, his first clear sight was a man's leg poking out of the  
nearest cell. A pool of blood cascaded out from underneath the limb.

Failing to process this, Stefan glanced upward, now able to see the silhouette's features.

Josette stood with hair streaming, staring dead-eyed into the night. Some sort of gash in her neck poured out blood.

Stefan was about to run forward and assist her when he saw her mouth.

Her mouth, too, was covered in blood. She slowly parted her lips.

And Stefan saw the large blood-stained fangs, the feral gleam in her now shark-like eyes.

Stefan screamed.

He screamed until his lungs ached. He screamed until her image wavered before him. He screamed until he thought he  
would die of it. He screamed until he saw her turn her face to his, saw her mouth his name through the blood bubbling  
out, saw her reach small red hands out to him.

Then he ran.

Josette, her bloodlust momentarily sated and returning to some semblance of human sanity, saw the small figure of her  
brother turn away and run from her as if from a dragon. "No, no! Stefan! Please, darling Stefan! Don't run from me!" She  
stepped forward like a sleepwalker as the storm burst overhead.

* * *

Josette stumbled through the woods, crying her brother's name in a hoarse voice. Her awkward, jerky steps were due  
more to the shock of her altered state and new animal instincts than the dark obscuring her view—indeed, she saw  
through the darkness now as well as she did through light. Better, even.

All her senses were heightened, the sounds and smells electrifying the otherwise dead blood in her veins. She was  
both frighteningly aware and emotionally numb: her heart had ceased to beat.

The only ruling passion in her now was to find her brother, to gather him to her and feel his dear warmth as he told her  
he forgave her, loved her still.

Barnabas, her father, the law, this new version of herself she scarcely had time to comprehend, that all could wait. It was  
pouring down rain, it was dark, and Stefan was alone and afraid. Of her.

 _"Stefan!"_ She wailed again, nearing the outer edge of Collinwood's property. She tried, oh how she tried to make her  
voice the soothing lullaby it had been in times past with Stefan. But she felt the blood of the guards trickling down her  
throat and tainting her voice with hints of metal. _"Stefan!"_ She could see the Great House now. He must be near, he  
must-

She was about to cry out his name again through the cracking thunder overhead. But suddenly her shoulders stiffened  
like a scalded cat's as she heard others call her brother's name. She saw lanterns bobbing through the trees. The  
household had evidently realized Stefan was missing and were now searching for him.

And coming nearer and nearer to Josette.

Josette slunk near a cluster of shrubs, debating whether she should hide behind them. But it was pointless, the search  
party would no doubt find her if she remained in these woods. Just as they would no doubt find Stefan, she reasoned.  
Meanwhile, if they found her, she would be done for. In her current physical state, there would be no denying what had  
happened to her. Josette was unsure that discovery would be so terrible, and might instead bring eternal release, but  
some new animal instinct made her crave survival, a dark hiding place to call her own.

She squeezed her eyes shut thinking regretfully of her brother. Then convincing herself once more that the house would  
find him, she slipped away into the night.

Behind the shrubbery, Stefan huddled, doused from the rain, barely breathing.

* * *

The sun rose a few hours later on Eagle Hill Cemetery. Two wizened gravediggers marched up the steep incline, "rising  
early to bury the late", as they liked to joke. In point of fact, however, they were not here to bury—not quite yet. They were  
here to confirm the new shipment of coffins that had been delivered the previous night.

The coffins had been deposited under the awnings of the Collins family tomb, which provided good shelter from the rain.

"Here, Tom!" Said one man, after carefully counting their shipments.

"What is it, Bill?" Tom asked, pausing from his paperwork at the sight of his companion's perplexed face.

"We were supposed to have five here, right?"

"Yes, five was on the order. What of it?"

Bill scratched his head, confounded. "Well, there only be four in front of me."

Had they entered the tomb, they would have found it empty.

Had they knocked on the tomb's wall three times and turned the ring in the stone lion's nose, they would have found the  
fourth coffin inside the secret room, alone and abandoned as a lone sailor on a lifeless spit of land.

* * *

Most of the household had abandoned their search for Stefan at this time, leaving it a matter for the law—that is,  
whenever Fancy Forbes would grace them with his presence. Yet Andre and the now fully recovered Barnabas kept up  
their pursuit of young Stefan, searching through the bushes and branches surrounding the estate, still damp from the  
night's storm.

Andre felt more dead than alive. Within a day, he had lost his daughter to the law and his son to the woods. For the  
beleaguered Frenchman, the past twenty-four hours had been a whirlwind of activity, and he hadn't any time to sort out  
his warring emotions caused by the loss of his brood.

He did feel himself growing closer to Barnabas. This Collins son had proven himself a man of fine mettle. Barnabas had  
lied dazed in shock upon his sickbed for only a few minutes after Joshua and Andre had finally revealed the new state of  
affairs: Barnabas's trusted servant was a sorcerer, had cursed him, and then been murdered.

By Barnabas's beloved Josette.

To Barnabas, this was obviously some sort of fairytale Stefan had concocted, or a nightmare inspired by such stories.  
Any moment now Barnabas would wake up and present Josette with her new music box.

Yet when the frantic housekeeper came in dragging the weeping Daniel behind her, whom she had forced a confession  
out of about Stefan's whereabouts, reality burst upon Barnabas in a flash. Organizing the search party, he led a throng of  
servants on a search of the Collinsport woods.

He bit back his feeling of failure as daylight arrived and still no sign of the wayward boy.

Then he heard a sniff behind a shrub.

"Andre!" Barnabas yelled after he peeked behind the cluster of green and found the pathetic little figure hunched over in  
the muddy grass.

 _"Mon fils!"_ Andre cried in a rare display of affection as he knelt down beside the boy.

Stefan's shivering arms were wrapped stiffly around his knees, his eyes shut, his skin flushed. Barnabas quickly felt his  
forehead and grimaced.

 _Fever._

"What is it, my darling?" Andre asked the little boy, seeing Stefan attempting to speak through the clattering of his teeth.  
Both men leaned in, catching a soft, "Josette...Josette..."

* * *

When Forbes finally arrived at Collinwood, his visit had nothing to do with Stefan. He was let in right away to Joshua  
Collins's study.

Joshua knew there was new trouble at hand the moment he saw the set white face of the lieutenant.

"Speak softly, sir. There is a sick boy in this house, and I don't want to upset him or anyone else more than they already  
have been."

"It's Miss DuPres, sir," Forbes said without preamble. "She is missing from her cell."

Joshua sat back down in his chair.

Forbes continued. "Her guards have been murdered."

Joshua's eyes widened.


	18. Chapter 18

*****1795*****

As the sun went down, the gravediggers returned with business more relevant to their job description. They came with  
specific measurements.

Straining, they pulled out the smallest of the four coffins remaining that had been deposited in front of the Collins tomb.  
Their labored grunts and the heavy scraping of the coffins muffled the noise of the tomb door opening slightly.  
Bill mopped his face with a rag, glancing down at the figures written on his piece of paper. "So they're that sure, are  
they?"

"Eh?" Tom dusted some dirt off his pants.

Neither noticed the slender, tapered fingers slip through the tomb's door and wrap themselves tentatively around it.  
Bill slapped the piece of paper. "The DuPres lad. Guess there's no hope he'll make it if they're already sending us out for  
this wee box."

Tom nodded as he took out his ruler. "None. Fever's got him. Shan't last the night, from all I hear."

A spasm seized the fingers round the door. The figure listening within cried out like a stabbed lioness. The next the  
shocked men saw was a flurried figure fly out, then they saw and heard and spoke no more.

* * *

Andre sat staring at his dying boy. Stefan's breathing was shallow, his face pinched. Andre felt with a pang that Stefan  
now resembled the last image Andre had of his wife before she faded away. Was this to be Andre's penance for  
punishing the lad for his mother's death? Losing him in a macabre parody of Marie's final moments?

Andre buried his face in his hand from where he sat beside the small figure's bed. The brandy he'd had was making his  
head swim, and blurred images haunted him. His son...and his daughter. Oh, where was his daughter? She was all  
Stefan could speak of. At intervals, the boy would open his glassy eyes with concentrated effort, and the only word that  
could pass his lips was his sister's name.

Joshua had solemnly informed Andre of Josette's mysterious disappearance—though tactfully leaving out the fate of her  
guards. That could wait. The girl's absence was enough to send Andre spiraling even farther into a befuddled grief.

Andre removed his hand from his bleary eyes and gently placed it over Stefan's small damp one.

The doctor entered. Andre did not look away from his son. The seasoned medical man made his way silently to the  
bedside, and did a final routine checkup on Stefan. Andre finally met his eyes, with one last surge of hope.

The doctor was grave. "There is nothing left to be done, sir," he said simply.

The frank verdict was too much. Andre groaned and his large shoulders shook with repressed tears. "No, no," he said  
again and again. It was his fault. All of it. The boy's whole life. Had Andre been more available to Stefan, the darling boy  
wouldn't have felt so compelled to go out and find Josette, if he hadn't been so afraid of Andre-

"Mr. DuPres, please," the doctor entreated, hand on his shoulder. The Frenchman's sobbing was causing Stefan in his  
feverish stupor to twitch, his forehead crease with consternation. Sadly, the doctor decided that it would be cruel to have  
the boy's last dim memory be his father's distress, accompanying him to the afterlife. The doctor steered the stumbling  
Andre out of the room, Andre surprisingly passive, now that there was no doubt his son would leave him before the  
dawn.

The flickering light of the sole candle and the uneven jerk of Stefan's chest as he struggled for breath were the only  
movements in the room now. Every once in awhile, Stefan would whimper, and a muted, "Josette," would escape him. All  
else was still.

Until a shadow fell over Stefan.

He opened his eyes weakly.

Josette stood over him, looking like a beautiful angel.

She had stolen a white cloak of Naomi's from laundry hanging outside, and her loose hair tumbled down her shoulders.  
She had been careful to wipe away all hints of blood from her person before arriving in her baby brother's room.

"Stefan," she whispered.

Her voice was gentle again.

And Stefan smiled wanly at her.

This small gesture made her fall to her knees beside his bed, clutch his hand fervently. "My dear sweet boy," she  
crooned, eyes shining. "Are you all right, dearest?"

He only stared serenely into her eyes in response.

She kissed his hand, pressing it to her cheek. "Stefan, you _must_ get well again, you _must_. You will, won't you?" Her  
vulnerable voice was like his when he'd ask her to check under his bed for goblins.

His eyes dimmed almost imperceptibly. They were her answer.

She bowed her head silently, and felt her chilled cheeks dampen. At least she was still capable of tears.

That was a cold comfort at the moment.

"Stefan, please...please don't die of fright of me. Don't...don't hate and fear me. I couldn't bear it, oh Stefan, I couldn't bear  
it!"

She felt a soft hand stroke her hair.

She raised her face to Stefan's, who used every effort left him to comfort his sister. Josette spoke again. "Stefan, do you  
forgive me?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting internally for one last burst of strength. Then, slowly opening his dry lips, he  
whispered, "I will always love you, Josette. I will always protect you."

Then he seemed to fall away from her. His eyes closed for the last time. A final breath shot through his lips and was  
gone.

Josette trembled. In a very weak voice she asked, "Stefan?"

There was no reply.

He was dead.

* * *

Josette adopted no supernatural exit. She walked like an ordinary human down the back steps, not caring if anyone saw  
her.

She stopped just outside the house, shaded by an oak tree.

She was here, she was existing, this was a tree, there was the sea, here was a house where people lived.

But this couldn't be _life_ , could it?

This couldn't be _life_ that took away Stefan. It most certainly couldn't be God.

It _could be_ the Devil.

It _could be_ Nicholas Blair.

She stared down at her white hands, whose bloody redness the night before had so terrified Stefan and made him run  
into the dark, to his death.

It _could be her._

She shook her head, staring at her hands as if they were new, ghastly things that had grown without her consent.

"No...no!" She breathed. "I cannot live like this!"

And she wouldn't.

Somehow, in some way, she would end this miserable charade. Nicholas's curse be damned, she would not live at his  
will as some vile undead wretch! She would wait until sunrise and burn to death, stake herself, anything, anything!

Anything but living in this world where she was her own brother's murderer.

She heard footsteps on the gravel path leading to the backdoor.

The tree obscured her as she watched Barnabas approach the house with heavy tread.

And everything stilled for her.

She sensed not so much his physical presence as the sudden storm of love that cascaded over her at the sight of him  
again.

Since the bat's bite, she'd felt her heart turn cold and stop beating, felt a growing callousness take root in her veins.

The only pressing emotion that remained was fear for her brother's safety.

Now he was dead. And now here was Barnabas, and emotions came flooding back in a powerful current.

Goodness and light and strength and love, strong, abiding _love._

His love was her home, and always would be.

Yes, she would end everything tonight, but first, first-

"Barnabas!"

She stepped out from the tree.

He halted just as he reached the steps. He whirled around.

Lovers stared into each other's eyes in the dead of night.


	19. Chapter 19

*****1795*****

Knowing there was nothing to be done about poor Stefan, Barnabas had gone to town with Forbes to look over the crime  
scene at the jailhouse.

Barnabas saw the corpses and the empty cell, but refused to connect the deaths to Josette's own doing. After deep  
reflection, Barnabas finally accepted the truth about Nicholas. Sorcery explained much that was mysterious about the  
man, such as his ability to survive shipwreck and create a profitable environment for himself seemingly out of thin air.

Although why Nicholas decided now of all times to turn against Barnabas and confront Josette was beyond his  
understanding.

Even with the strong aftertaste of disgust and betrayal Nicholas left behind, Barnabas trusted Josette, if not the man he  
once considered his closest friend. Josette had only killed Nicholas to protect someone she loved. She would not  
murder in cold blood like whoever killed the jailers. And even if she were of a different, more brutal nature, how could a  
lone, weaponless woman commit this bloody melee against two armed men?

She herself was obviously in danger. Kidnapped, or worse.

He had not wanted to leave Forbes, insisting on helping the lieutenant track down wherever Josette was. He and Forbes'  
team combed the town for hours before a messenger reached him that Stefan was now in his last minutes on Earth.

With heavy heart, Barnabas headed home.

And now Josette stood before him in the moonlight.

She stopped him as he sped toward her.

"No, my love. Don't come near me."

"Darling?"

Her face was set in a frozen expression, but her eyes burned. "Stefan is dead." Her voice was brittle.

Barnabas stepped nearer. "Sweetheart..."

"Stay back!" She hissed, retreating near the tree.

He shook his head, perplexed. "Josette, I...I!" He threw his hands up helplessly. "You have me confounded, Josette!  
Please, darling, let me help you! How did you escape your cell? Your guards have been brutally murdered, and I hear two  
gravediggers were also killed in the same fashion up on Eagle Hill! Who did that?"

Her figure was still as a corpse's. "I did."

Barnabas's vision blurred for a moment. "What, what was that?"

She lunged forward, expression wild. "I did! I did, did you hear? I killed them! I slaughtered them like animals!" Her voice  
was hoarse, and he was aghast at how pale she was, how red-rimmed her wide eyes.

His voice was soft, sympathetic."Josette, you are in shock. You were forced to shoot that bastard Nicholas, you were put  
in jail, you saw who knows what horrors when those guards were killed, and you just lost dear Stefan. All this tragedy  
has confused your mind. You overheard someone say you killed them, and that has influenced you in your current state.  
Don't listen, darling. You're safe now, I know you're innocent."

There was no frenzy in her sad response. "But I'm not." She shrugged, which was an odd juxtaposition to her mournful  
face. "I am a murderess, Barnabas. Your sweet fiancee has been cursed."  
He frowned. "Cursed?"

"Nicholas," she whispered.

His name served as cold water down Barnabas's neck. Suddenly, he saw everything in a new light. Contrary to what  
Barnabas's sense of reason wanted him to believe, Nicholas was a sorcerer. Perhaps capable of cursing from beyond  
the grave. And Josette was so lifeless and cold standing before him...

In a low voice he asked, "What is going on?"

Despite the eerie stillness of her posture, despite the bare honesty of her next words, her eyes gleamed with more  
warmth and love than ever before. "When you took Millicent to the doctor's the day she died, Nicholas told me that you  
were in love with her and decided to elope with her. His voice...he was so convincing. He made me forget your noble and  
honest nature. He seduced me. I never felt that way before. So mean, so animal. I wanted to revenge myself on you  
through him. Then I learned the truth...that Millicent was dead. I've been haunted by my transgression ever since. I  
wanted to tell you, I yearned to tell you, but my cowardice, my fear of losing you always held me back! I've hated myself for  
deceiving you, but I couldn't risk your loss. You are everything to me, you always will be. When Nicholas told me of his  
love just two days ago, I spurned him, and in anger, he used your life as leverage for his cause. Either I go with him or  
you die.

"I cheated. I killed him. He cursed me before he died. Cursed me to become a murderess. To kill four men and the  
dearest little boy who ever lived. For I am Stefan's murderer just as much as I am the others'. For what sensitive child  
wouldn't die at the sight of this?"

Barnabas reeled back as her fangs jutted out.

She was as beautiful as a living porcelain doll, and the fangs were like a deep scratch on fine china. The delicate  
proportions and gorgeous features remained, but the addition was raw, violent.

Tears glistened in her eyes. "There! Now, my love, now will you kiss me?"

The night dyed his face a dark blue, yet her inhuman eyes could see clearly every feature on his face. Yet his expression  
was unreadable.

Several moments passed. A lifetime could have passed.

Then he answered.

"Yes."

She was astounded. "What?"

His voice was strong. "The moment you spoke of your tryst with Nicholas just now I wanted to hate you. Not only for  
deceiving me physically but for lying afterward. I would not have shamed you, you know I wouldn't have. A simple word  
might have kept all of this from happening. True, it might not have. Nicholas still could have found a chance to enact  
revenge. But at least I would have known. Yet"-his eyes glazed over with devotion. "Yet I cannot hate you, Josette. I could  
try for a million years, and I would still go insane with desire at the mere sight of you, the smell and sound of you. Curse  
or no curse, you are my Josette."

He reached out his hands to hers. Yet she still would not take them up.

She shook her head regretfully. "You are more than generous, my love. But this must be farewell."

"Farewell?" He asked, voice subdued with panic.

"There is no chance for our happiness, not with the state I am in. I would not be able to resist the temptation of evil, the  
call to drink blood. Nicholas's curse will see to that," she sneered. Then she softened. "It is better if I...if I go away."  
He shook his head, determined. "No."

"You will forget me in time, beloved. Forget like a bad dream..." She gasped in surprise as he grabbed her roughly by the  
arms. She had never seen such a queer light in his eyes, never felt his grip so tight.  
His face constricted as he stared at her. Then he ripped open the top buttons of his collar, exposing his neck.

"There. Drink all you like. Turn me."

Josette's eyes flew open in horror. "No, Barnabas! No!"

"You must!"

"You're mad!"

"Yes!" He cried, and his hearty laugh that rang like a bullet through the night appeared to confirm this. "I am mad! Let us  
be mad together! For there is no life for me without you, Josette."

"Barnabas, you don't understand! You will be turning away from God, from Heaven! You will be embracing evil!"

Barnabas shook his head, a wide smile on his wild face. "You are wrong, Mademoiselle. If we fight together, combine  
our strengths while under the curse we can overcome evil and fight for good! Our love will be our redemption, Josette!"  
She was almost choking on tears. "No, no, that's not how it works-"

"Believe in me, Josette! Believe in us!" He grabbed her head and roughly pushed her face into his throat. "Drink, Josette. _Drink."_

His gesture wiped away any rationalization she had. The feel of his bare skin and the blood pumping beneath her lips  
made the dead blood in her own veins suddenly broil and rage. She was no longer human, she was Vampire, and she  
must do what she must.

She drank from him.

In between his moans and her growls, she heard him whisper faintly in her ear, "Midnight." Two hours away. "Widow's  
Hill."

* * *

Barnabas's plans were quick but efficient. He was not yet turned; that would come later. For now, he packed a sparse  
rucksack and prepared the horse and carriage. He would collect Josette on the cliff, take them to the family crypt, and  
stow away her coffin in the carriage. During the day, he would find some secluded spot deep in the forest and they would  
sleep together in the one coffin, entwined in each other's arms. They would settle in the untamed American terrain,  
hidden in the forest, away from society, honing their skills toward good, toward light.

But first, before leaving behind his home possibly forever, there was one more woman in his life he had to see.

Naomi sat alone in the manor's drawing room, putting the finishing touches on the doilies she was making for her son  
and future daughter-in-law's new house. Naomi had soaked in the new information about Josette's disappearance and  
murdered guards with sad disbelief, and her work at the needle was in effect her refusal to acknowledge that anything  
should come between her son and his true love.

She gasped as she looked up, and smiled in relief. "Barnabas! You surprised me, my son."

Barnabas stared fondly at his mother. He wanted to memorize every familiar curve of her dear face, her comforting smile,  
her slow, graceful movements as she moved her hand to caress his cheek. She suddenly frowned. "Barnabas, dear, are  
you sure you've completely recovered from Nicholas Blair's attack? You're quite cold, my son."

Barnabas sat down close beside her, taking her hands in his. "Mother, I am leaving. I am leaving tonight with Josette."  
Naomi sat up straighter, taken aback by this sudden news. He hastened to explain. "Before you speak, Mother, you must  
listen to me. I can lie and hide from the whole world, but not from you." In quiet tones he told his mother, as delicately as  
he could, the situation as it stood. Yet he would not subject her to the sight of the bite marks on his neck; his neckerchief  
carefully hid the red circles.

After he was done, he braved looking into Naomi's eyes. There was wonder there, but to his welcome surprise, no  
disbelief. He feared Naomi would think current events had damaged his mind. Instead, she said in a strained whisper,

"Oh, my son. Are you sure you know what you're doing? Are you sure love alone can break the curse?"

"I must try, Mother. I must try for her sake and mine."

Her countenance softened. "Ever since I first saw you with Josette I thanked God that you'd been so blessed with such  
happiness. All I ever wanted for you, Barnabas, was a long, happy life with a great love." Barnabas recognized that the  
melancholy undertone in her voice was due to the disappointed hopes in her own life with Joshua, and he squeezed her  
hand.

She stood and paced, pausing as she gazed out the window into the dark. She appeared to struggle internally, arguing  
with herself, until she turned around and spoke once more. "Barnabas, you may wonder at my lack of disbelief at your  
announcement. The truth is, this is not the first time I have been exposed to...magic."

She closed her eyes for a moment, and then continued. "When I was a girl, before I married your father, I was in love with  
a mariner—well, that's a polite way of putting it. He was practically a pirate, Barnabas. He would come into port every six  
months, each time with tales and gifts more exotic than the last. The last time I saw him, he came with a gift more  
astonishing than any that had come before: magic. He had been introduced to a coven of witches on a Celtic island, and  
in thanks for delivering tools necessary to their trade, they gifted him with power. To prove that he was not lying to me, he  
dangled his fingers above my head, and suddenly gems rained down upon me—diamonds, rubies, and pearls of all  
kinds, gold nuggets, too, cascading down like a waterfall, practically filling the room."

"Our family jewels!" Barnabas said, understanding dawning.

Naomi inclined her head. "My father was an avaricious man, Barnabas, who didn't mind where the loot had come from.  
He convinced Joshua and his father these gems were merely part of my natural dowry, but Joshua's pride made him put  
forth the rumor that it was all his own earnings. Anyway, this is getting ahead of the story. Once I saw what my mariner  
was capable of, I recoiled. For in his face I saw not the usual rascally glint of mischief, but a demonic gleam, a growing  
malice. It horrified me. I pleaded with him, begged him to go back, demand release from the witches who bestowed  
these powers, before it was too late, before he was beyond redemption.

"As long as I live, I shall always believe he truly loved me. For you see, once he understood the extent of my  
unhappiness, he immediately promised he'd return and find a way to release himself from these magical bonds. He and  
his merchant partner, a skilled medical man of science by trade, went back, but were told that the only cure for all magic  
spells and curses—everything from witchcraft, demonic possession, and _vampirism_ -" she looked Barnabas quickly in  
the eyes"-could be found in the deepest rainforests of the West Indies, in a potion made from tree bark combined with  
certain raw minerals, and with good faith.

"So they went, they found, they mixed the potion, and they were cured." Tears stung her eyes. "All this I learned from the  
letter his partner sent me. Two months after taking the potion, my mariner caught measles on board his ship and died."  
She took a moment to collect herself. Then she regarded the awe-struck Barnabas and ran a hand through his hair.  
"With the letter came a map to the exact spot they went to, with instructions on how to mix the potion. I have kept it with  
me all this time, in my safe in my room. I will fetch it for you. You and Josette must go there, Barnabas. You must go there  
and return to me, full of love and life and God."

Barnabas could find no words. He could only press his lips to his mother's hands.

* * *

An hour later, eager to tell Josette their change in plans, Barnabas stood on the cliff's edge on Widow's Hill. The night  
was clear and without a drop of rain, but the wind howled in from the sea. He gripped his cane anxiously as he peered  
through the darkness toward the trees, waiting for his beloved.

He thought he heard a voice whisper his name.

"Josette?" He asked.

Silence.

Then something cold hissed by his ear.

He heard his name again.

"Who is there?"

All at once the voice started laughing, circling around him. That voice...a man's voice.

"Nicholas!" Barnabas snarled, eyes darting about.

 _"Yes, my dear employer. I am here. I am honor b ound as your servant to help you, aren't I?"_ The sorcerer's slick voice raced around Barnabas, disembodied, echoing into the night.

Hatred and anger pushed out any feeling of fear. "You blasted wretch! Murderer and betrayer! What do you want now?"

 _"Such harsh words, Master Barnabas, for one who is simply trying to warn you."_

It was Barnabas's turn to laugh. "Warn me? Ha! Says the man who tried to end my life."

 _"Believe me, Barnabas, after what Josette does to you tonight, you will look on death as a mercy."_

Barnabas shook his head. Nicholas's power was already taking effect, and Barnabas found himself revealing more than  
he intended. "No. You're wrong. Neither Josette nor I will suffer from your insidious curse for long."

He almost covered his ears from the thundering insistence of Nicholas's laugh. _"Why, because of your mother's bedtime_  
 _story about her sailor suitor? You miserable fool. The 'cure' your mother spoke of is almost impossible to put to proper_  
 _use, even to those most adept in potions and medicines."_

Barnabas struggled valiantly not to be swayed by Nicholas's bewitching words. "You're lying! Mother said he wrote to  
her"-

 _"No,"_ Nicholas's voice interrupted harshly. _"His partner wrote to her, because the sailor died. The potion may have taken_  
 _away his magic—thanks to his partner's medical knowledge—but it also took away his life, painfully, horribly, leaving him_  
 _a skeletal husk, a rictus of unspeakable pain on his face. The partner only wrote that he died of measles out of pity, so_  
 _your mother wouldn't blame herself for insisting he find a cure. No science or magic has been yet found to make that_  
 _cure work without death as a result. Otherwise, don't you think vampirism would have long been a thing of the past?"_

His taunting voice pounded in Barnabas's temples. He massaged them, trying, trying to block out the words.

"Still," Barnabas panted heroically, "Still, even if what you say is true, Josette and I will at least be together. Our love"-

 _"Your love,"_ Nicholas's voice spat, making the wind quiver, _"Your love will not save you from the aftereffects of my curse._ _Before long, you both will find yourselves craving evil, blood, and you will forget your sacred vows of light and truth. You_ _will devour everything and everyone that ever meant anything to you."_

Suddenly there was an image in Barnabas's mind of himself, cadaverous and white, with fangs like Josette's. Blood  
dripped from them onto his chin. He tried shaking this picture away, but all at once he saw himself in the Great House as  
he attacked his father in his study, spilling the old man's blood as he cried out. "No..." Barnabas shook. Now he was in  
little Daniel's room. _"No."_ The boy crumpled dead against his fleet of toy soldiers.

Now he was in the drawing room. Josette, eyes sparkling demonically, skin whiter and fangs redder than even his, held  
down his mother as she wept. Barnabas saw himself bare his fangs at Naomi, laughing as she sobbed. He descended  
on her neck.

"NO!" Barnabas cried, throwing his arms over his eyes.

 _"There is no hope for you, Barnabas."_

"Take it away!"

 _"There is no life for you with Josette."_

"STOP!"

"...Barnabas?"

Nicholas's presence was gone. Barnabas turned to find Josette standing near him, white hood up.

His mother's hood.

Head swimming, Barnabas stepped away from her, closer to the cliff's edge. "Stay away from me, Josette," he said in a  
tremulous low voice.

Her brow furrowed in shock. "What are you talking about? What happened?"

His forehead was clammy with sweat, his eyes unfocused as he stood at the tip of the cliff. "You mustn't come near me."  
Frantic now, Josette spread open her arms. "My dear sweet Barnabas, tell me what I have done!"

His eyes ached with love. "Oh, Josette! It's not what you've done, it's what you _will_ do!"

"What is that?"

"You will turn me!" He shook his head, almost speechless with grief. Then he found his voice again. "My love, I have had  
a vision. I have seen what our undead life will be like together. Dearest, there is no hope for redemption for us, that was  
a mad dream of mine. We will quickly become monsters, and destroy everything we love! Everything!" His face was  
almost green and his eyes wandered.

Josette spoke slowly, deliberately. "Barnabas, listen to me. You spoke of visions, and you look ill. Nicholas has gotten to  
you again. He has bewitched you. He has placed false images before you, all to turn you against me!"

Nicholas's hold was too strong. Barnabas stared at her blindly. His eyes were unseeing. "It is too late, Josette. I cannot  
become such a monster. I cannot bring death and destruction wherever I go. Yet...yet I cannot live apart from you, either. I  
would rather...I would rather..." he stared up to the sky with swimming eyes as his mouth opened and closed  
automatically. His cane fell from his hand beside his feet. He swayed.

Josette saw what was happening. "BARNABAS, NO!"

"Farewell, Josette." He closed his eyes and leaned back.

He fell.

Josette's howl of grief blended with the cries of widows' ghosts.

She collapsed to her knees at the cliff's edge, staring into the darkness where Barnabas disappeared. So far down were  
the rocks and water that even with her heightened eyesight she could only barely make out the image of his body landing  
below.

The waves crashed against his dead form.

The sight swirled beneath her shut eyelids and suffocated her. She keened, rocking back and forth.

She felt beside her hands something cold. Opening her eyes, she saw through her fog of grief his wolf-headed cane.

As if she had never seen it before, she ran tentative fingers over its length. Then groaning she fell over it, pressing it to  
her lips.

Then she stiffened.

She heard all around her the other one's laughter, flying around her gleefully, before disappearing in the wind.

* * *

 **A/N: That was depressing. To cheer you up, why not head over to the Collinsport Historical Society website and read**  
 **"Collinsport Shipping: Two Secret Lives" by DS fanfic favorite Mad Margaret, an interview with yours truly? I feel**  
 **quite honored that MM deemed me worthy of note, and I always love yapping about DS and my work. Read her first**  
 **article, too! I'd provide links, but you know ...**

 **Never fear if you think this whole "Naomi totally just happens to have this cure to vampirism that's never been**  
 **mentioned before" thing seems too deux-ex-machina-y. It'll tie back into the plot, you'll see. Although, yeah, the fact**  
 **she just happens to have a map AND instructions is a little unbelievably lucky, even I admit. Um, it's all connected to**  
 **coincidence and fate and what not. Yeah, that's the ticket.**

 **As I recall, the Naomi Collins legend with the family jewels was later revealed to be a plot between the mariner and**  
 **Abigail. However, because Abigail isn't in my story and it works more poignantly for my plot as a tragic affair of**  
 **Naomi's, I've changed it up a little. Hope you like!**

 **EDIT: Oh, and for those of you who've read Mad Margaret's article and might be wondering why I said I was going to**  
 **add a rebellious Josette in this chapter and didn't? Um, that'll be NEXT chapter. Thought it would be this one when I**  
 **started, then I decided it would work better in the next, when she reflects on all her recent tragedies.**


	20. Chapter 20

******1795******

The figure of the girl in the white cloak with the wolf-headed cane walked numbly down the path away from Widow's Hill.

Her face was expressionless to the point it resembled an eerie, beautiful death mask more than a human countenance.

Her slow but even steps, combined with that blank slate of a face, made her quiet figure somehow more menacing than  
if her fangs were out, dripping with blood.

Josette wondered if she would ever feel again.

Yet behind the lifeless eyes, which saw the woods, the ground, the moon through a tunneled haze, bits and pieces of  
thoughts were slowly gelling into an articulate shape.

An articulate shape that was fast becoming a torrent of emotions she must either succumb to or manipulate into  
strength.

She halted by a sturdy tree outside a thicket. She pressed her hand and forehead against it, the hard and intractable  
trunk a wall to crash the torrent against.

 _Penance. Was this penance for her sins?_

She felt the cold metal of the wolf's head against her palm and she gasped aloud at the fresh wave of despair.

Then something dark howled an answer.

 _No. This was not penance for her sins._

 _This was Nicholas, MAN, punishing her for her sex._

Her fingernails dug into the tree.

Her heated mind was full of hate.

Nicholas had claimed love, but it was possession he desired. He wanted a talented mare to break to harness. When  
she insisted on making her own decisions, loving on her own, he struck out and punished her by forcing her into what he  
thought she was all along: an animal. A heartless, blood-sucking leach.

Just as Phyllis Wick had been branded by all and sundry a Fallen Woman, so Josette had been branded as well, forced  
out of God's care into Vampirism.

Yet with blind faith Josette had taken one last wild stab at happiness, finding forgiveness from the man she had chosen,  
a man not like the rest of his judgmental kind.

And yet this man was destroyed by the Other Man. Strengthened by sorcery, the Other Man once more reached out his  
hand and swatted away her happiness.

Josette remembered her desire to destroy herself after Stefan's death. Now with he _and_ Barnabas ripped from her, what  
was stopping her from going through with it?

But she felt, again, the wolf's head within her palm.

And she remembered the vow she made with Barnabas.

 _Keep fighting. Keep fighting for goodness and light._

 _Barnabas._

"Barnabas," she said, her voice somewhere between a wail and a whisper. Then her face tightened with resolve. No.  
Giving in and letting herself be destroyed would let Nicholas Blair and his like win. Were she to fold, she would indeed  
be another Phyllis Wick, driven away instead of fighting for what's right.

Josette stared longingly at the cane within her hands. For _his_ sake as well as hers, she would spend the remainder of  
her days, no matter how long the centuries, turning her curse to goodness. She would fight to help not only herself stay  
strong in a world that hated women, but help the other Phyllis Wicks, the other Josette DuPres' who were wounded but  
not destroyed.

Lifting her head in the dim moonlight, Josette strode with sure steps toward Collinwood Manor.

* * *

It was well past midnight at the Great House. Andre was sitting hopelessly drunk, sobbing into his cupped hand that  
shaded his eyes from not only his overwhelming grief but from his two visitors. Joshua and Forbes stood uncomfortably  
and rigidly beside the weeping man, their expressions a balance between stoicism and grave sympathy.

Joshua repeated what had been muffled by Andre's hiccuping sobs. "I hate to put you through this, Monsieur, after so  
much tragedy, but I cannot hold off Lt. Forbes any longer. He must talk to you about Josette."

Forbes decided to take the slight quieting of Andre's moaning as a sign to step forward and pursue the issue. "Monsieur  
DuPres, I likewise share Mr. Collins' aversion to distress you, but I must." His next words were blunt and swift. "As you  
already know, your daughter has disappeared. But I must also inform you that her guards were found brutally murdered  
in her cell. Caretakers at the cemetery have been disposed of in the same way. I am afraid that without a trace of your  
daughter to be found, we must either conclude that she is among the dead somewhere, or that she is in fact responsible  
for these crimes."

At once, Andre's convulsive trembling stopped. He sat frozen, eyes still shaded by his hand.

Then with a growl he threw out his arms, revealing his red tear-stained face and blazing eyes. With deep fury he cried,

"How _dare_ you besmirch my daughter's name so? How much more suffering must a father withstand? Out, all of you!  
 _Out!"_

He gave into his tears once more, his head collapsed into the arms he folded on the table, weary from anger.  
Joshua raised sad eyebrows to Forbes that said, "What more can be done?" And truly, there was nothing more. Forbes  
had said what he had come to say; it was obvious this poor wreck of a man had hardly any idea what day it was, much  
less any notion of his daughter's actions or whereabouts.

Joshua and Forbes silently withdrew.

Andre was lost in the damp darkness of his face hidden in his arms. Then a dear, familiar voice cut through the dark like  
a warm lullaby.

 _"It's true, Father. All of it."_

Through his inebriated daze, Andre stared with mouth agape at his beautiful daughter.

She stood by the closed window, dressed in white. She was radiant silhouetted against the night sky outside.

Andre wondered vaguely if he were losing his mind.

"Jo...Josette? Darling? How...how did you get in here, sweet girl? Forbes..." he pointed unsteadily at the door.

With unearthly silence, Josette glided near him. "Forbes cannot hold me now, Father. None of them can." She knelt  
beside his chair, taking his hands in hers.

Andre shivered at their cold touch. He squinted at his daughter. Was it drink dwarfing his perception or the ordeal she  
had been through that made her suddenly so cold, so pale? Her eyes, lacking the unique warm glint that always livened  
any room she entered, were now so wide and empty. There was some sort of fire there, deep within, smoldering its last  
embers, but it was a fire he had never seen in anything other than a sneaking cat's in the dead of night.

"You must help me, Father," she said.

Immediately he covered her hand with his. He cleared his throat, praying he wouldn't slur his words. "Of course, my child.

Anything you need. That blasted Forbes beast was just here, telling such vile lies"-

"He told the truth, Father."

He breathed heavily for a few moments. "You mean...you mean, someone...someone tried to hurt you, tried to kill you like  
they did your guards and you...you escaped?"

Her eyes were so large and unfathomable. "No, Father. _I_ killed the guards. And the caretakers."

She went on swiftly before he had chance to make any denials. She could not bear hearing Barnabas's excuses for her  
behavior again tonight, certainly not from her father. "I have been cursed, Father. I have lost Stefan and Barnabas tonight,  
and been given this instead."

She hated to do this to her father—her father, who sat there more heartbroken and stunned than she had ever seen  
anyone, much less the self-assured and noble Andre DuPres.

But how else to convince?

Father gasped aloud at the reveal of his daughter's fangs, the same fangs she had revealed to her true love just hours  
before.

He had to grip the table to steady the room spinning around him.

Then his tears spilled again. "My Josette..."

She stood before he could touch her.

"You mustn't pity me, Father, you mustn't." Those eyes that had been dead before were now shockingly alive, more feline  
and intense than any wildcat's. She spoke rapidly. "I have made a decision. Barnabas is dead. Nicholas Blair bewitched  
him from beyond the grave, sending my darling over Widow's Hill. With Barnabas dies my heart, but not my resolve.  
Vampirism is my curse now, and there is nothing I can do to get rid of it. But I don't _have_ to be a slave to its dictates."  
Andre shrank back involuntarily at the sight of his little girl standing straighter and more determined than any General he  
had known.

She continued. "I will need solitude to practice honing my skills to doing good to others. Barnabas planned to join me,  
but now, to honor him, I must do this alone. But I'll need your help, dear Father. You will escort me deep into the woods  
and leave me there, in a spot far away from any settlement, any town. You can warn me if you hear anything in town of  
plans for expansion, and to bring me sustenance when the harsh winter days deny me animals whose blood I can suck  
in place of humans. You must do this for me, Father. It is too late to start tonight, but in the morning, seek out the secret  
room behind the Collins' tomb; there shall be my coffin, and you can convey me away."

She relayed Barnabas's instructions on how to enter the secret room that she had used when first cursed. Then, with the  
old gleam of love bright in her eyes again, she stroked Andre's face. "Until tomorrow, sweet Father."

She was gone. All left was air. Andre sat gulping, his drunk mind ablaze.

The details Josette had given him were blurred together and distorted, and he couldn't remember the order or the  
essence of what she wanted.

Only one thing was clear to Andre.

Josette was cursed.

There was no cure for her.

If she was to be saved...

If she was to be saved, she must die.

With one last groan sent to an unforgiving God, Andre collapsed into his arms again, falling into a cold, dreamless  
sleep.

* * *

Andre knew the next morning he had not dreamed Josette's visit when he learned Barnabas was dead. Two village girls  
out looking for sand dollars found him laid out on the rocks, cold and blue and the water lapping at his body.  
Naomi's guttural keening from her bedroom resounded throughout the house, pounding in Andre's brain along with his  
headache.

Just as his daughter was resolved, so was he.

He approached Joshua and spoke to him privately.

Then both grieving fathers headed to the crypt.

They knocked three times; they twisted the lion's ring.

They stood over Josette's coffin, a stake in Andre's hand.

Joshua lifted the lid.

She was as beautiful as a sculpture, but her expression was that of a sleeping little girl.

And the stake fell out of Andre's hand with a clack.

His knees buckled. "No...no!" He cried. "I cannot do it, Collins! I cannot kill my darling child!"

He clasped her unfeeling body in his arms and wept.

For a man who had deliberately felt nothing since early adulthood, Joshua Collins had for the past few days been  
bombarded with more emotions than most men could handle over a lifetime. His son was gone, his wife perhaps  
insane with grief. And as he stared at this weeping Frenchman, Joshua felt kinship.

He placed a hand on Andre's shoulder. "There may be a different route we can take. A compromise. Come, we will fetch  
men good at keeping quiet to help us get her coffin out of here temporarily."

* * *

A few hours before sunset, workers at the New House dragged Nicholas's luggage into the storage room.

"Why don't they just burn the cursed things?" Said one red-faced man as he struggled to position Nicholas's dresser  
against the wall.

"It's worse luck to destroy a sorcerer's things than to keep them," said his companion, wiping his brow as they took a  
brief break. "Even from beyond the grave, those Black Magic men can feel when their property's been tampered with, and  
they wreak havoc all the way from Hell." He slapped the dresser. "Easier this way, tucked away like this. Out of sight, out  
of mind."

The other grunted and changed the subject. "Too many odd things going around. Glad we're getting out of here. After all,  
why on this of all days, when his son's been found dead at the bottom of Widow's Hill, does old man Collins decide to  
hire us all to chain up a coffin? Has to be something big if he gave us enough money to get out of town and keep our  
mouths shut."

"Must be Master Barnabas's jewels tucked away in there, I suppose. Part of his inheritance, don't you know. The old man  
ever were avaricious."

"You may be right. Old man said it was some valuables, but didn't say what _kind_ of valuables."

"Well, he wouldn't, would he? That's what it is, I'll bet you, jewels."

His friend snorted. "Locked away where the things can't do anybody any bit of good, in that dank room in that dratted  
tomb."

"Now, don't let Master Collins hear you referring to that place. We're deaf and dumb, remember? Deaf and dumb. Now if  
we hurry up and finish this, we can pack up and head out to the dock early."

They left to collect the rest of Nicholas's items. Neither noticed when one of the men brushed past Nicholas's  
manuscript, where it slid behind the dresser.

* * *

Andre and Joshua dismissed the rest of the men at the crypt door, reminding them to keep quiet and leave  
Massachusetts.

Then the two older men entered the secret room once more.

A deep quiet grew between them as they stared dead-eyed at the locked coffin.

"We've...we've done the right thing?" Andre needed assurance.

Joshua nodded grimly. "No one shall know of this place. I will hide the map behind your daughter's portrait, in case I  
need to get in for any reason, whether it be another rebellion or whatever. I will destroy the map before I die." He had no  
way of knowing that his death would take him unexpectedly, a swift heart attack at the dinner table ten years later, before  
he could ever get to the map's hiding place. "The question is, what shall we put down in our respective family histories?"

Andre's eyes never left his daughter's coffin. "All the history I ever wanted is in here. My daughter lies there, wearing my  
wife's ring, her fiance's cane beside her. My son is buried tomorrow, with yours." He blinked, and became more  
dispassionately practical. "I am returning to Martinique. I shall say she came with me and entered the convent after  
Barnabas's death. You and I shall somehow come up with enough money to bribe that Forbes fellow into silence  
concerning Josette and Blair."

Joshua gave his assent. "I'll leave you a moment alone with her." He slipped out.

Andre gazed and gazed at the coffin before him. "Josette," he said trembling. "Josette, dear light of my life, you must  
know I do this for your sake only. A father cannot kill his child. But a father also cannot let his child become the demon  
you would allow yourself to be. This is my final gift to you, my child."

Stifling the sobs threatening to burst out, he retreated without a second look.

The heavy wall swung shut, echoing like cannon fire.

The coffin was bathed in darkness.

Almost two centuries passed in the darkness, the heavy, oppressive darkness.

And the long internment killed Josette's desire to fight for good. But not her desire to fight.

* * *

 **A/N: I think Joshua probably lived longer than ten more years. Didn't he die in 1830 or something? So slight tweaking**  
 **there.**

 **Hope you don't think I'm repeating myself too much: Josette once again reveals her fangs to someone and explains**  
 **again and again her plan to do good. They're important points, though! Appreciate them. Please?**


	21. Chapter 21

*****1967*****

The long hall of fog stretched forward to a bright, dazzling green light.

Slowly the fog lifted, and the green light was the emerald, swinging from Professor Eliot Stokes's fingers in the Old  
House's sitting room.

Barnabas Collins, living and breathing in 1967 in Collinsport, Maine, stared glassily ahead.

"Do you hear me, Barnabas Collins?" Asked the professor.

Silently Barnabas nodded.

"Then you know what you have to do. Josette is a pitiful animal, begging for mercy, for death. You know what you have to  
do."

Several moments passed. Then a wistful smile, unconnected to the dreamy eyes, accompanied a final nod. "Yes...I  
know what I have to do."

* * *

Elizabeth had never held Carolyn so tightly before, not even when she came back from her first disappearance. "You  
mustn't, you _mustn't_ ," the mother spoke between deep intakes of breath, "you mustn't ever do anything like that to me  
again."

Pandemonium reigned downstairs in Collinwood. Carolyn, her father, her cousin, and Willie had arrived in the entryway  
just as Roger and Elizabeth were about to call the police. Now everyone was speaking at once, and the frustrated Roger  
could barely make his question heard.

"Look, is anyone else unaccounted for?"

Liz took time out of her suffocating embrace of Carolyn to glance around the room, frowning. "I should think Barnabas  
would have heard the ruckus and come in. Professor Stokes, too."

Carolyn and Willie froze at the same time.

 _Josette alone and fading in the basement...Jason mentioned Stokes._

Taking each other by the hand, they sped out the front door, into the deepening night.

"Wait!" Liz called, lunging after them.

Paul pulled her back. "Come, Liz," he said in a measured voice. "Have no fear. I've something to tell you about Barnabas,  
Josette, and Stokes."

* * *

Barnabas knew what he had to do.

And Stokes, too weak with fear and heartbreak, left Barnabas to the professor's final revenge.

It was with slow, heavy steps that Barnabas reached the basement. He held a hammer and chisel.

He heard Josette's cries, subdued beneath the coffin's lid, as he descended into the darkness.

* * *

Willie and Carolyn raced through Collinwood's expansive grounds toward the Old House.

"I...I don't know why I want to save her," Carolyn said, teeth chattering from her own nerves and from the cold night air.

"I don't know why I want to either," Willie said swiftly, staring resolutely ahead.

"It's this damn connection to her," Carolyn continued shakily. "I feel if she were to die, I would, too."

"Me, too," Willie's voice broke.

Their figures disappeared into the forest just outside the Old House.

* * *

Barnabas traced a numb hand over the coffin's dark oak lid.

Then he chiseled away at the lock.

Josette had recognized Barnabas's tread, could recognize the hypnotized hum of his voice as he spoke to himself softly.

She wept pitifully. "Don't look at me, Barnabas, don't look at me," she pleaded from inside.

The lock gave way.

The coffin lid swung open.

Barnabas stared down at her, his eyes misty and lost.

 _Much like when he fell-_

Josette squeezed shut her own withered eyelids, blocking out 200-year-old memories and the sight now of Barnabas  
about to dispose of her old, broken form.

She heard him whisper, in that beautiful, strong, _wonderful voice_ -

"I know what I have to do."

She waited for the sting in her chest of the stake.

Instead she heard the whisper of fabric.

She peeked over her wrinkled arm.

Barnabas knelt beside her, his shirt open, exposing his neck.

The eyes were tender now. Tender yet demanding.

"Drink."

His voice held no room for argument.

Too weak to resist, with a low moan Josette threw herself at him.

* * *

The Old House loomed ahead, dark against the moon.

Willie and Carolyn tore through the sitting room, down the rickety steps into the basement.

They held their breath in suspense at whatever awaited them.

They stopped at the coffin.

Josette lift her beautiful young face from Barnabas's chest. Willie was taken aback. The wrinkled yellow face was smooth  
as porcelain, the glorious ringlets falling down her shoulders as they always did.

So stricken with relief was he that unlike Carolyn, he recoiled not at all at the stain of blood circling her mouth.  
Barnabas turned his face to the two staring there.

Fangs peeked out of his upper-lip.

Carolyn screamed.

"Please, Carolyn," Barnabas said softly, reaching out an ice-cold hand. "Do not fear. I remember who I am now...I am still  
Barnabas Collins of today, but am also the Barnabas who reigned here almost two-hundred years ago. We shall find  
peace, Josette and I, now."

The two humans before them stood stunned, disbelieving.

Josette broke the silence with a self-loathing moan. "No, my beloved. You are wrong. I have taken away all hope of you  
finding peace. I should have been strong enough to keep you from this. I have failed you once again." She sighed,  
dropping her head on his shoulder. "There is no hope, no cure..."

Barnabas closed his eyes, concentrating as his fingers touched his temple. "No...you're wrong. There _is_ a cure." He tilted  
Josette's chin so that he could look into her eyes. "Nicholas entranced me before I could tell you that fateful night at  
Widow's Hill. My mother...she knew of a cure in the West Indies. If I concentrate hard enough, I believe I can remember  
the location. The instructions were surprisingly simple, too." His forehead creased as he scanned this centuries-old  
memory. "You ground the bark of a mahogany tree into a potion with water and sap, then mix in the vampiric blood." He  
frowned. "Yet Blair...Blair said the curse came with a price. Death. He said no magic or scientific way had yet been found  
to prevent this outcome. I do not know if he was lying in order to hasten my fall, or"-

At his words, Josette stiffened in his arms. _No scientific way._

Josette sat up, eyes wide. She studied her pale arms, and held them up to her narrowed eyes. She stared at her veins,  
where faint hints of Stokes' cure still coursed through her bloodstream, despite his efforts at subterfuge. In almost a  
whisper, she said, "Ah, but there is. There is a scientific way to mix with the old magic. The missing ingredient is now  
inside me."

Lovers stared into each other's eyes. Understanding dawned in both.

Without breaking eye contact with her beloved, Josette said, "Oh, Willie? Will you and dear Carolyn fetch Professor  
Stokes' notes for me? I believe they will come in handy on a voyage Barnabas and I shall soon embark on."

Her red lips curled into a mischievous, contented smile.


	22. Chapter 22

Three weeks later, Carolyn and David walked together along one of Collinwood's wooded paths, near the Old House. A  
serenity characterized the two foreign to their prior natures. Serenity but a certain melancholy, too.

"...So, Dad finished the buy of the Blue Whale today. Said he wanted to do something productive now that he plans  
sticking around. He's taken on Mom as a silent partner. If you ask me, I still don't think she's recovered from all this or  
really accepted the truth about Josette or Barnabas, but she'll come around. Willie will superintend the bar, keep it fairly  
clean and free of rowdy customers." She tucked a stray hair of David's behind his ear. "You listening to me, brat? I've just  
been telling you some good news."

The moody boy kicked at a rock. "I'm...I'm all right. Just..."

"Just miss Barnabas."

His silence was her answer.

She pulled him close to her.

"Do you think they'll come back?" David asked in a small voice.

Carolyn stared mistily ahead at the blue horizon. "Yes," she said softly. "I can feel it." She smiled at her cousin. "And  
anyway, it looks like you're getting along a little bit better with your father."

David shrugged. "I guess so. I suppose with learning about vampires and zombies and sorcerers and stuff, he's  
decided maybe Mom really was..." he shuddered. "...what she was. Well, at least he listens to me now. Really listens to  
me."

They both turned at the new voice behind them. "H-hey."

Carolyn's face brightened. She hadn't seen him alone since the day at the dock, when she had helped him smuggle two  
long boxes into a cargo bay headed East. "Willie! How's everything at the Blue Whale?"

He shrugged. "Not bad. Place needs some serious remodeling, though." He grinned sheepishly. "But I guess I have  
experience with that now."

Carolyn's smile widened. "Yeah, I guess you do."

As they spoke to each other, David dug the toe of his shoe into the ground listlessly. It was great and all that Roger was  
taking interest in him now, but they'd always be a little too different to connect in the ways David really needed. So David  
was sullen, and watched the hole he dug grow deeper.

Suddenly his heart surged as a familiar young voice called out to him. "David!"

"Stefan!" The French boy stood at the end of the path with his flute in his hand, in front of the Old House. His face was an  
expression of happiness. He gestured to the mansion behind him. "Come play! There's jump rope upstairs in the attic."  
David looked behind him. Carolyn and Willie were still talking. Their conversation had apparently taken a serious turn.  
Neither noticed the two scheming boys.

With a devilish, animated smile, David took off after his friend.

Meanwhile, his cousin took Willie's hand. His eyes fixed worshipfully on her face, Willie clasped hers tightly.

Their understanding complete, they walked off down the path together, hand in hand.

* * *

That night was cold and bitter.

A large stumbling form, breathing jagged, lumbered into the Old House.

Fingers shaking, his hands finally succeeded in lighting a match.

Eliot Stokes stared hollow-eyed into the hallway mirror.

After sending Barnabas to the basement, the heartbroken Stokes had fled the premises, getting as far as a hotel on the  
outskirts of town.

But a force that had been unleashed by Paul Stoddard, roaming invisibly through the air, settled in Stokes' room with  
him.

And settled inside him.

Stokes stared and stared at his image, face pale and clammy, eyes lined with horrified fatigue.

The creature, spirit, whatever it was, had led him here again. The last place Stokes ever wanted to see.

He shut his eyes wearily, then opened them again. He let out a wail of surprise.

A dark, handsome man stared back at him in the mirror. Black witchy eyes gleamed merrily above a feline grin.

Stokes tried to cry out once more, but his voice was paralyzed. He felt himself drift away, as if into a deep sleep.  
And Nicholas Blair's smile grew.

A heavy tread was heard outside.

"Come in, my servant," Nicholas called out, voice accompanied by an unearthly echo.

The door swung open, and Jason's zombie stood in the doorway, dead skin shockingly white in the moonlight. "What  
now, master," he ground out through brown teeth.

Nicholas gazed happily outside of the mirror.

"Now? Now we must summon the phoenix. She who goes by many names. She who will rise again and again, driven  
now by the same disappointed love I have felt." His eyes narrowed, and as he spoke, an orange glow poured out like  
mist from the mirror. "Rise, Laura Collins. Rise, Cassandra Rumson. _Rise, Angelique."_

The mist began to take the form of a shapely woman whose emerald eyes were her only discernible features.  
She was a creature of many names, many faces. But they call came back to this alluring form, this magnetic powerful  
being.

All of Nicholas's small, even teeth showed in his wide grin.  
But the grin faded as the misty silhouette started flashing and fading. Something was blocking her...something wasn't right... _what_ wasn't right?

She felt it now...

Absence.

The woman's smoky hand reached out for help, but it was useless.

"Too late!" Her faraway voice cried out as she faded forever into air. _"Too late and too far from us!"_

"Too far?" Nicholas repeated once Angelique's image dissipated for good. His mind raced over the possibilities. Then  
he remembered Barnabas.

Then he remembered the map to the West Indies.

He looked down at the body he possessed: the body of the professor, whose knowledge of modern science held the key  
to the final cure.

And Nicholas Blair's final wail of defeat shook the Old House's foundations.

There was nothing left for him now.

Nothing.

It was done.

The curse had been broken.

The curse that fueled his own resurrection was torn asunder, made null.

Jason's body crumpled to dust.

As Nicholas faded in the mirror, his face grimacing in pain, he cried out through tightly compressed teeth, _"You shall_  
 _never escape me, Josette! You shall come back, I know you will! And when you do, I shall rise again! I shall"-_

Nicholas's image was gone with a flash.

Professor T. Eliot Stokes fell to the floor, sanity gone.

* * *

Deep in a jungle at the heart of a small island in the West Indies stood a large mahogany tree.

Its trunk was scraped of much of its bark.

The long slender branches shaded two forms, huddled together just outside of their tent.

The late evening weather was warm and pleasant enough that they decided to nestle under the tree that had been their  
salvation, as Adam and Eve might have done in Paradise.

 _Their rediscovered paradise._

Josette buried her face in the crook of Barnabas's neck, grinning.

She heard his heart beat beneath her hand.

He could feel hers under his.

In the night, far from the reaches of curses and magic, Josette slept.

And she awoke in the morning.

END

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you once again to Wild Concerto for making the reposting of this story possible! Hope everyone enjoyed, whether they read it again or for the first time.**

 **Although there are plenty of opportunities for sequels here, I'm probably going to let this beautiful beast be. I like leaving Barnabas and Josette on a**  
 **happy note, cured and in each other's arms. However, if anyone reading would be interested in continuing this little**  
 **tale, just let me know and credit, credit, credit!**


End file.
